If I believed in such a hand or eye
I’d think the tiger’s symmetry is weak;
what would such stealthy paws or stripes hold now
when held as candle to all our fine arts?
In what abode would such a God have dreamt
the magnificence of Da Vinci’s mind,
the obsidian blade, the copper mine,
the bow, the gun, the knife, the scythe, the pen?
What shoulder could bear the image of a god?
what creature would not break and bend at the hip
to flee from such a foreign thing as this?
the clay it must have been of finer stock!
William’s dreaded tiger is but a lamb,
an image as natural as all death
and birth that has ever been witnessed,
but we are made of that fearful symmetry.