Man, afraid to be alive,
Shut his soul in senses five,
From fields of uncreated light
Into the crystal tower of sight,
And from the roaring songs of space
Into the small flesh-carven place
Of the ear whose cave impounds
Only small and broken sounds;
And to this narrow sense of touch
From strength that held the stars in clutch;
And from the warm ambrosial spice
Of flowers and fruits of Paradise
To the frail and fitful power
Of tongue’s and nostril’s sweet and sour.
And toiling for a sordid wage
There in his self-created cage,
Ah, how safely barred is he