Inquisition in Mist
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Sapient mystagogue, arraign
The body’s ministers, and find
One who is not born of pain,
One who is not wholly blind.
For the brain that overhears
Dubious monotones of flesh
Fashions from archaic years
Nothing but a fragile mesh.
Through the coil the slow hours pass
With secret hand and burning eyes,
And mouths that mutely shape Alas!
With an unconcerned surprise.