Grand is the road that leads us to despair –
Inlaid with hope, and strewn with lily-white
Intention; promising an end so fair
That none would deign to heed the dying light.
For all that one could ever hope to find,
Or suffer endless torment just to feel,
At once is known to the enchanted mind
To lie in wait for passion to reveal.
Oblivious to waxen wings undone
In all-devouring faith’s infernal thrall,
And soaring joyful in the midday sun;
How heavenly the flight before the fall.
Perfection beckons us, devout in vain:
Our dearest hopes to yield us only pain.