Mathematics Considered as a Vice

I would invoke that man Who chipped for all posterity an ass (The one that Jesus rode) Out of hard stone, and set its either wing Among the wings of the most saintly clan On Chartres Cathedral, and that it might sing The praise to all who pass Of its unearthly load, Hung from its neck a harp-like instrument. I would invoke that man To aid my argument. The ass smiles on us all, Being astonished that an ass might rise To such sure eminence Not merely among asses but mankind, Simpers, almost, upon the western wall In praise of folly, who midst sow and kine, Saw with its foolish eyes Gold, Myrrh, and Frankincense Enter the stable door, against all odds. The ass smiles on us all. Our butt at last is God’s. That man is but an ass— More perfectly, that ass is but a man Who struggles to describe Our rich, contingent and substantial world In ideal signs: the dunged and pagan grass, Misted in summer, or the mother-of-pearled Home of the bachelor-clam. A cold and toothless tribe Has he for brothers, who would coldly think. That man is but an ass Who smells not his own stink. For all his abstract style Speaks not to our humanity, and shows Neither the purity Of heaven, nor the impurity beneath, And cannot see the feasted crocodile Ringed with St. Francis’ birds to pick its teeth, Nor can his thought disclose To normal intimacy, Siamese twins, the double-beasted back, For all his abstract style Utters our chiefest lack. Despite his abstract style, Pickerel will dawdle in their summer pools Lit by the flitterings Of light dashing the gusty surfaces, Or lie suspended among shades of bile And lime in fluent shift, for all he says. And all the grey-haired mules, Simple and neuter things, Will bray hosannas, blessing harp and wing. For all his abstract style, The ass will learn to sing.