So ; you have found an engine
Of injury that angels Might dread. The world plunges, Shies, snorts, and curvets like a horse in danger.
Then comfort her with fondlings, With kindly word and handling, But do not believe blindly This way or that. Both fears and hopes are swindlers.
What's here to dread? For mortals Both hurt and death were certain Already ; our light-hearted Hopes from the first sentenced to final thwarting.
This marks no huge advance in The dance of Death. His pincers Were grim before with chances Of cold, fire, suffocation, Ogpu, cancer.
Nor hope that this last blunder Will end our woes by rending
Tellus herself asunder— All gone in one bright flash like dryest tinder.
As if your puny gadget Could dodge the terrible logic Of history ! No ; the tragic
Road will go on, new generations trudge it.
Narrow and long it stretches, Wretched for one who marches Eyes front. He never catches A glimpse of the fields each side, the happy orchards.
C. S. LEWIS.