Vacant is the shallow socket where lies
The panes of gray glassy undistinguished
Portals where runs the saint and extinguished
Soul into the Catacomb of the mind’s eyes.
There, in the recessed inner man, like sties
That swine would seek as a muddy home squished
Beneath their cloven hoofs, we relinquished
Our vision through rivers of soulish cries.
O’ that the sweat could but dry for awhile!
That the tears of hardened flesh could produce
Unimpeded fruit, instead of this guile!
Then would I save my skin, and introduce
The sanctity of imagination;
Then I’d live without investigation!