It Is a Tragic Thing

Man is drunken

Yet thirsting still for stronger potions.

The wines of milder vintage

Mellowed by love and beauty

Cannot intoxicate the mind that has tasted

The liquor of its own inverted power.

Mind is master;

Yet eyes dimmed by cataracts of greed

Can see no signposts of the Master Mind

Nor torches of the avatars

That flame disaster;

Ears tuned only to earthly kingdoms

Hear not the guiding carillons of angels.

Ceaselessly, triumphantly,

With merciless, sword-thin laughter,

Man builds his slaves--

Robots with the strength of Atlas

Purring annihilation

Forgetting that he, himself,

May be food for his own mind's gorging.

It is a tragic thing

When man lights the fuse

Of the bomb that will level his own house.

Would he but look up,

He might walk with Gods and travel by star

To the kingdoms of forever.

The Relief Society Magazine

Second in MFCP Clinic Poems, Spring 1953