Just thought and thought! Poor artist of the word!
High priest of thought! You cannot flee;
The word holds all: the world and man,
Death, life, and ever-unveiled truth.
Brush, chisel, organ! Lucky is the man
Who's sensitive to them, and does not go beyond them!
He may indulge himself in worldly feasts!
Yet mortal life is pale beneath your cutting rays,
Before your naked sword, O thought!
High priest of thought! You cannot flee;
The word holds all: the world and man,
Death, life, and ever-unveiled truth.
Brush, chisel, organ! Lucky is the man
Who's sensitive to them, and does not go beyond them!
He may indulge himself in worldly feasts!
Yet mortal life is pale beneath your cutting rays,
Before your naked sword, O thought!
