Eleven rogues and he to judge a fool—
He files out with the jury, but distaste
Constricts his fluting nostrils, and his cool
Mind glazes with contempt. High-mind has brought
A basin with him, in which to wash his hands.
Laving his palms and fingertips, he finds
An image of his white, proportioned thought
Plunged in the squalid suds of other minds.
Unmoved by Lust’s requests or Hate’s commands
Or Superstition’s half-embarrassed bribe,
His brain takes wing and flutters up the course.
First plotted by the Greeks, up toward the sphere
Where issues and alternatives are placed
In the remorseless light that knows no source.
Here, in the great meringue they call the Void,
The wise alone have cause for breathing. Here
Do parallel lines, with a whisper, meet.
Here priests in tweeds gyrate around the feet
Of Fact, their bride, and hymn their gratitude
That each toe of her ten is understood,
From this great height, the notion of the Good
Is seen to be a vulgar one, and crude.
High-mind as Judge descends to Earth, annoyed,
Despairing Justice. Man, a massy tribe,
Cannot possess one wide and neutral eye.
He casts his well-weighed verdict with a sigh
And, for a passing moment, is distressed
To find it coinciding with the rest.
