I found me in a great surging space,

   At either end a door,

And I said: “What is this giddying place,

   With no firm-fixéd floor,

   That I knew not of before?”

   “It is Life,” said a mask-clad face.

I asked: “But how do I come here,

   Who never wished to come;

Can the light and air be made more clear,

   The floor more quietsome,

   And the doors set wide?  They numb

   Fast-locked, and fill with fear.”

The mask put on a bleak smile then,

   And said, “O vassal-wight,

There once complained a goosequill pen

   To the scribe of the Infinite

   Of the words it had to write

   Because they were past its ken.”