Chapter VIII

It is a chaos, this world.
Therefore it rests me.

For I have striven long
To create a world of my heart’s desire,—
To erect pinnacles of dream
That should shine amid the sunlight,
Giving intelligible form
To the intentions of the earth.

And I am tired—
Tired of my pinnacles of dream,—
Both those that shine already amid the sunlight
And those that shall never be upraised.
And I descend
Into this chaos, this real world of waiters,
And it rests me.