Ah! huddled o'er thy world, thou plodman Mind,
Ill-victualled off a field
That yearly less doth yield,
Whose seeds of fact thin crop of inference find;
Obedient—blind
To thy Desire (the god who god denies):
Yet deeming truth to spill
From thy mechanic mill
While groping fingers follow poring eyes.

Oh! lean Imagination, glutton nice,
Thou sorry Midas, bold
To make, not eat, thy gold,
Whose very power has pinched thee like a vice;
Thou pay'st the price
Of thine own godhead, doubting it. Thy curse,
(Omnipotence thy toy)
To build and to destroy,
To love and ne'er enjoy thine universe.

Oh! brave, wan, panting, abstract, human soul,
How seeming-certain! How
Impossible art thou,
Created part, pretending to be whole!
Time—Matter—roll
Insurgent on thy feigned divinity.
Hug thou thine own conceit—
None else believes in it—
Lest when thou doubtest thine own creed, thou die!