Progress leaps, amid lulls, for three wed muses:
Innovation, imitation, contest
Imagine, visitor, a vast room full of bits of straight string—
People stand all around, some scratch their heads, none moves,
Until our brave hero approaches slowly one little length,
Gives her a twist, and voila!
A circle.
A room full of straight strings, and one circle.
Seeing, some other soul thinks, *aye! Crass,
Wrong, how unperfect!*
Makes a circle too, from another pair of ends—
Look, look! He cries, much better!
On and on likewise, go men and strings,
Til not a single straight string remains,
Only circles, and men
Scratching heads, in none the foggiest idea
What’s to be done with a room full of circles.