Look, there is no achievement, nor its lack,
But that it's manifest of who we are:
That, not as it would seem by whose own power,
But one providence that's always on track,
That gives no alternative, nor turns back,
Only appears to - ah! that is by far
The subtlest thought that thought itself will mar
For its own ends, whose code it cannot crack.
Reality is foregone a conclusion:
We mean this all the time, but know not what
We say: an element of clear delusion
Suffices for the structure of our thought,
Our intermediate gain, the pure confusion
We pride ourselves on - yet, it matters not.