Classic Poem

What is there in the supersensuous flesh
Which is the angry self of my proud brain
That it desires the sharp cruel rein
And the thin whip of logic? Let it thresh
For good and all out of its impure mesh
The truth—renew the quick magnetic pain
Of the invisible scourge—Then once again
The God shall drive in anguish clean and fresh
Around transparent rock my steed-like will
Up steep invisible crags, built of pure air,
And you shall hear a music shrill and rare,
My crystal feet straight up the glassy hill!
While I create the rocks up which I run
Or sink in chaos like some burnt out sun.