The poet would likely find better words,
but Mr. Nothing only ventured to repeat
after a song, as tormented by the myriads
of his infinitesimal desires, each inflicting
a different kind of despair, he tried in vain
to invent endearments that could get him
to the infinite springs of jasmine scent.
And as he stood at the edge of the meadow,
Platocrates suddenly spoke, somewhat out
of context, “The god compels me to be
a midwife, but forbids me to bring forth.”
hidden pilcrow 