The great scholastics are dead; those staggered
men with bloodied eyes and blurred visions digging
deep to inkwells colored shamelessly pious. Why
they are all gone. We may have their parchments and
sheepskin records - illuminated volumes thrust across
these centuries, wagging truths and awful certainties
we'd rather now not discuss - but not them
We are far more settled of the cosmos, that's for sure.
They, who drank their wine in chambered pots marked for
merit with rubies or gold, are now so far and distant
that even the inklings of their masterly shadows are
vanished forever. Yet, in our modernity, in the fineness
and raiment of circulated absolutes, we still miss them.
Having learned to live so well, we cower now to think -
of Hell, or even Heaven. The gate fees are simply not
enough. Picture for yourself an ancient Augustine,
tired yet plodding fields of wonder, guilt or awe, trying
to explain to us the ways and means of Heaven's shallow
entry. He'd be pictured as a fool, sent away to still
another bothersome aged country where fathers yet kill
sons. The right of all this option, so divine.
We seem to have forgotten; yes,
we seem to have forgotten.