on the simple, mosaic floor echoed from a grove,
A tragic void, superficial abyss, a thin, peremptory surface,
Not running across the leads in a token to conscience, human race!
One trod the less durable crumble, so seemingly solid above,
Redolent of the Sumerians and epochs since, ancient and modern in love,
Careless of sensibility and polite in a Greek myth without grace,
Fire on the outer line, jealous of mention, justified solely by space,
Broadly interpreted as hubris by gods on the wings of the dove.
I will dare for my neighbour; if he is poor or has
Then I will pace the icing hold as though there is no falling,
Till he have the means, through dark ages, till Orion is free.
Do not fear likely fissures or doubt what cracks are appalling,
I think the truer artist will be unlikely to stumble or to agree.
The eternal question allows of no procrastination or stalling.