That most fatally dower'd,
Prometheus, of all men's seed,
Lifted up restless eyes
From our most gentle earth,
And sought the glint of the skies,
And stole immortal fire
To our immortal woe

For that keen flame of Heaven,
Swifter than glancing light
Or leap of sound, than the air
More subtle, than day more bright—
Thought, which to God is given
Creative, is our despair,
And a load we cannot bear.

It burneth in the brain,
It throbbeth deep in the heart,
Before its blade our eyes
Dazzle, we reel and go
Whither our hot thought flies,
Up to the deathless Gods,
Then cry, In vain! It is vain!

Man is a cage of pain,
His thought is a pure thin fire
That beateth against the bars
And bonds of his grosser part,
Astrain for the sky. And behold
The flame roareth and rendeth,
And the war nor stayeth nor endeth!

Then at last when the bars
Of the body shatter'd and torn
Cleave asunder, the flame
Winneth the bitter stars
(Keener than scimitars),
And man lieth prone in shame:
Better not to be born!