The fiery permutations of the soul
Are infinite, but how to be revealed?
On what impassive matter must the whole
Inveterate coil of good and ill be sealed!
How much too simple all the tale of deeds
To pattern out these labyrinthine things,
These knots of bright unreason, ghostly bredes
Veiled weavers weave, moving with silver wings
Within the duskling sense. Most diverse visions
Their visionaries darkly reconcile
At one sad end. Fate's delicate derisions
Through the same hell of penance may beguile
Two women, who meet with alien eyes downcast;
Yet one stand first with Love, and one the last.