The Pangs
—atque ea nimirum quaecumque Acheronte profundo prodita sunt esse, in vita sunt omnia nobis.
The stone of Sisyphus Explodes into design; The water, through the sieve, Descends in purest line; And who would think that birds As huge, as gaunt, as these, Could open beaks to sing Such lovely melodies?
The thirst, the hunger, take Sustenance from the sight Of water, out of reach, And apples, red and bright; The wheel's revolving hum Diminishes; unbound, A happy giant strides Across the springy ground.
All that we thought was Hell, And we therein, forsooth, Proves, as Lucretius showed, The converse of the truth: Hell was in us, not we In Hell; we made it so, Guilty self-punishers, Who bade the cancer grow.
All nonsense: cut it out, The wound heals over; see Water and wheel and rock And fruit and bird and tree All separate, all met, Dear love, dear world, in one Recovered image, bright And glorious with sun.