More fortunate the way the rocks are made,
Insensate, undesired; for us a sorrier plight.
I order all the fictions of the past,
Deductions from the facts, to fashion law,
But analyzed, all things I ever saw,
Will not maintain a symmetry to the last.
No law will hold;
And though I tear the soil, am overbold,
Twisting and turning from the ultimate mould,
I cannot ever catch to bind God fast.