Visages grand are for thine eyne,

Which take the height to be a sign,

As bird flight or entrails might lead

To Fate’s secrets there to concede;

Thus, does man, when weighing prize,

Forget to add unto his size,

Unknowing that, if not for him,

This now bright sight would seem so dim,

Else hold unto no lessons wise,

Being but for man’s flimsy whim,

Which doth not always serve applause

For giving sore misjudgment cause,

To reckon mundane, rigid things

In offal auspice upon wings,

And, thus, betray our inborn reason,

Off’ring it to beast and season,

Which, as sadly true oftentimes,

Encourage man’s worst of crimes;

Although, wanderer, it be you

Who does in pallid things imbue

Their bright and lovely pallet hue,

Not for thee the mountains grew,

Who wanders empty to be filled,

And, therefore, the fate is willed;

Yet, as ye overlook the clouds,

Dismantling multilayered shrouds,

Do the misty mountains teach

That not all’s within thy reach;

That there’s no worth in forcéd showing

That which is not thine for knowing,

For where there is no question asked,

Answers will always be masked.

So, wander rightly, wander free

In spirit spritely, just to see

Whate’er nature holds for thee,

It holds it not for thine own glee.

-Poyetikos