This last pain for the damned the Fathers found: <br />"They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned." <br />Such, but on earth, let me foretell, <br />Is all, of heaven or of hell. <br /> <br />Man, as the prying housemaid of the soul, <br />May know her happinss by eye to hole; <br />He's safe; the key is lost; he knows <br />Door will not open, nor hole close. <br /> <br />"What is conceivable can happen too," <br />Said Wittgenstein, who had not dreamt of you; <br />But wisely; if we worked it long <br />We should forget where it was wrong. <br /> <br />Those thorns are crowns which, woven into knots, <br />Crackle under and soon boil fool's pots; <br />And no man's watching, wise and long, <br />Would ever stare them into song. <br /> <br />Thorns burn to a consistent ash, like man; <br />A splendid cleanser for the frying-pan: <br />And those who leap from pan to fire <br />Should this brave opposite admire. <br /> <br />All those large dreams by which men long live well <br />Are magic-lanterned on the smoke of hell; <br />This then is real, I have implied, <br />A painted, small, transparent slide. <br /> <br />These the inventive can hand-paint at leisure, <br />Or most emporia would stock our measure; <br />And feasting in their dappled shade <br />We should forget how they were made. <br /> <br />Feign then what's by a decent tact believed, <br />And act that state is only so conceived, <br />And build an edifice of form <br />For house where phantoms may keep warm. <br /> <br />Imagine, then, by miracle, with me, <br />(Ambiguous gifts, as what gods give must be) <br />What could not possibly be there, <br />And learn a style from a despair.<br /><br />William Empson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-last-pain/
