The mathematicians and physics men Have their mythology; they work alongside truth Never touching it; their equations are false But the things work. Or, when gross error appears, They invent new ones; they drop the theory of waves In universal ether and imagine curved space, Nevbertheless their equations bombed Hiroshima. The terrible things worked.
The poet also Has his mythology. He tells you that the moon arose Out of the Pacific basin. He tells you that Troy was burnt for a vagrant Beautiful woman, her face launched a thousand ships. It is unlikely: it might be true: but church and state Depend on more peculiarly impossible myths: That all men are born free and equal: consider that! And that a wandering Herbrew poet named Jesus Is the God of the universe. Consider that!
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There is no God but God; he is all that exists, And being alone does strangely. He is like an old Basque shepard, Who was brought to California fifty years ago, He has always been alone, he talks to himself, Solitude has gotten into his brain, Beautiful and terrible things come from his mind. God is a man of war, Whom can he strike but himself? God is a great poet: Whom can he praise but himself?
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There is this infinite energy, the power of God forever working—toward what purpose? –toward none. This is God’s will he works, he grows and changes, he has no object. No more than a great sculptor who has found a ledge of fine marble, and lives beside it, and carves great images, And casts them down. That is God’s will: to make great things and destroy them, and make great things And destroy them again. With war and plague and horror, and the disease of trees and the corruptions of stone He destroys all that stands. But look how beautiful— Look how beautiful are all the things that he does. His signature Is the beauty of things.
