XIII
There needs not ask the obscure oracle
Whereto these dire imaginations tend.
We read this sigil in the dust of Hell:
"The Gods have given for this no happy end."
What end should we desire, who grasp the gain
We have despoiled from everlasting time,
Who gather sunshine from the iciest rain
And turn the dullest prose to rhythm and rime?
Think you we cannot warm our hands and laugh
Even at the fire that scatheth adamant?
Think you we shall not knead the utmost chaff
Into a bread worth Heaven's high sacrament
And from the bitter dregs of Hell's own wine
Distil a liquor utterly divine?
Whereto these dire imaginations tend.
We read this sigil in the dust of Hell:
"The Gods have given for this no happy end."
What end should we desire, who grasp the gain
We have despoiled from everlasting time,
Who gather sunshine from the iciest rain
And turn the dullest prose to rhythm and rime?
Think you we cannot warm our hands and laugh
Even at the fire that scatheth adamant?
Think you we shall not knead the utmost chaff
Into a bread worth Heaven's high sacrament
And from the bitter dregs of Hell's own wine
Distil a liquor utterly divine?
— 15 —
