Lovely was fire and wonderful;

I caught it like a fruit and scorched

My frail and delicate fingers

To know that fire was hot and cruel.

Often I leapt to pluck out

The ruddy rising Sun from his heaven,

The more I gazed the fiercer he grew

And blinded my wondering eyes.

Out of a handful of snow

I chiseled a lovely statue,

Which melted as I was making it

And I wondered its dissolving with my Own heat.

I pleased my serpent soul

With the harmony of my senses,

When the music ceased it bit me to the consciousness

Of "what is wonderful is dangerous".