Oh, wayward mortal who these books invented,
Why was’t thou not by some kind hand prevented?
And thereby kept from many a luckless swain,
The direful knowledge that he lacked a brain—
Lacked it, at least, where poetry was needed,
Like the poor wight who here has not succeeded.
Through days of doubt and darkness,
In fear and trembling breath,
Through mists of sin and sorrow,