pity this busy monster, manunkind,

 

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:

your victim (death and life safely beyond)

 

plays with the bigness of his littleness

— electrons deify one razorblade

into a mountainrange; lenses extend

 

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish

returns on its unself.

A world of made

is not a world of born—pity poor flesh

 

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this

fine specimen of hypermagical

 

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

 

a hopeless case if—listen: there's a hell

of a good universe next door; let's go

 

E.E. Cummings