Thought is false happiness: the idea

That merely by thinking one can,

Or may, penetrate, not may,

But can, that one is sure to be able—

That there lies at the end of thought

A foyer of the spirit in a landscape

Of the mind, in which we sit

And wear humanity’s bleak crown;

In which we read the critique of paradise

And say it is the work

Of a comedian, this critique;

In which we sit and breathe

An innocence of an absolute,

False happiness, since we know that we use

Only the eye as faculty, that the mind

Is the eye, and that this landscape of the mind

Is a landscape only of the eye; and that

We are ignorant men incapable

Of the least, minor, vital metaphor, content,

At last, there, when it turns out to be here.