On the untamed plains of the world
There are creatures more keen and vital
Than we can conjure in verse or in dreams;
And among them dwells the bull that is Lord.
And his voice harrows the earth,
And men try to stop that dreadful sound:
From the South Sea to the wide open North,
But forever the fearsome billowing resounds.
How deep the blacks and dark the nights?
To know there are always shadows behind?
What is the depth that would confound
And silence your boundless discerning?
You fashion your words as a harness
And imagine your theories strong,
As a bridle and bit to fasten
Comely jaws which foam and quake,
Flowing with life and fecundity.
But what can wake you from your fantasy?
Can any man bear to know?
That nothing in earth or heaven can stop Him
From begetting strange and terrible children?
