Classic Poem

They whose Fire does dimly shine,
In Smoke hid from themselves remain;
Their Heat cannot their Dross refine,
Nor chase thick Vapours from their Brain:
They think they see, yet still are blind,
Think they alone are blest with Sight.
This, for their Good, has Heav'n design'd,
That they may still enjoy Delight:
For if it should the Vail remove,
They quickly would themselves despise;
From Ignorance proceeds their Love,
In that alone their Dotage lies.