By cursing fate and folly what have I
Within this fickle sphere improved or changed?
What social craft or pewter alibi
Can fathom how the heavens are arranged?
To live within the walls of flesh and bone,
A hermitage of fated decadence,
Is never to have truly met or known
The Muses in their Cosmic residence.
Where is the free and unencumbered mind
To lay its weary head of human hair?
On Sunday evenings, where can Phaedrus find
A respite equal to his load of care?
Our intellect is destined to transcend
This subatomic shroud that is its end.