Classic Poem

By crude rotation—
It might be as a water-wheel
Is stumbled and the blindfolded ox
Makes forward freshly with each step
Upon the close habitual path—
To my lot fell a blindness
That was but a blindedness,
And then an inexpressive heart,
And next a want I did not know of what
Through blindedness and inexpressiveness
Of heart.

To my lot fell
By trust, false signs, fresh starts,
A slow speed and a heavy reason,
A visibility of blindedness—these thoughts—
And then content, the language of the mind
That knows no way to stop.

Thus turning, the tragedy of selfhood
And self-haunting smooths with turning,
While the worn track records
Another, and one more.

To my lot fell
Such waste and profit,
By crude rotation
Too little, too much,
Vain repetition,
The picture over-like,
Illusion of well-being,
Base lust and tenderness of self.

Fall down, poor beast,
Of poor content.
Fly, wheel, be singular
That in the name of nature
This creaking round spins out.