My friend, with all the figures and the graphs
With columns neatly out before you laid,
With reason notated, with logic align'd,
And, even sickened, compelled to stare in perfect silence at the stars --
How moved to pity am I at your predicament:
The most poetic of us all most lacking in imagination.
There, before you, were not inscribed cold numbers,
Feelingless fomulae, inept calculations;
But the total sum of man's furthest comprehensions
Dictated in the language of the universe.
How strange and lamentable this seems -- that it should move you to disgust!
-- And leave you to yourself with mystery as your salve.
How very, very lonely that must be.