Rejoice That Man Is Hurled,

'tis Well Averred, A Scientific Faith's Absurd.

I, Painting From Myself And To Myself, Know What I Do, Am Unmoved By Men's Blame Or Their Praise Either.

I Know A Mount, The Gracious Sun Perceives First When He Visits, Last, Too, When He Leaves The World; And, Vainly Favored, It Repays The Day-long Glory Of His Steadfast Gaze By No Change Of Its Large Calm Front Of Snow.

Only I Discern Infinite Passion, And The Pain Of Finite Hearts That Yearn.

Stung By The Splendour Of A Sudden Thought.