Sestina of the atom bomb
He found for man the boon and curse of fire,
The killer and creator. What could be
Reward to which his merit could aspire?
The Fates ordained his doom; no longer free,
Rock-chained, to bear, with nerves that never tire,
An eagle's beak and endless agony.
The cunning craft, that fashioned for the free
The power of mighty forces that aspire
To make men more than what a man should be,
And snatch from heaven the secret, scorching fire,
What could it gain but death and agony,
And woes of which the very demons tire?
Yet man's unsated searchings still aspire
To plumb the hidden depths. His thought is free
To measure, test, experiment, and tire
His fancy with new follies, if there be
A chance to light some new Promethean fire,
E'en though its kindling breeds but agony.
For abstract knowledge, truth that should be free,
Free to work death and discord like that fire
First brought from heaven for endless agony
And woes of which the very demons tire -
Selfless for that to labour, that should be
The goal to which our modern Fausts aspire.
It may be man shall yet, indignant, tire
Of these great finds whose final worth should be
Not beauteous things to which all souls aspire,
Nor that high star that lightens o'er the free
Quenching all darkness with its radiant fire,
But death, disaster, ruin and agony.
Then, like the Fates that doomed to agony
The first discoverer of heaven's hidden fire,
He will arise, and in his anger be
More ruthless, raging, ‘Of such tricks we tire.
No more this cunning knowledge shall be free
To seek the power to which such fools aspire.’
Lo, though man's pride make waste the world with fire,
And war again breeds endless agony,
Prometheus still will to his prize aspire.
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