Consider, if you will, the fullness of all Which Nature has made, seemingly infinite in variety Its endless permutations randomly arrayed In such a manner that science and piety Would concur that its bounty is to be enjoyed For nothing more than its boundless, lovely inscrutability Yet its works exhibit a consistency To be employed in the service of mankind, A felicitous though unacknowledged design Enabling the manufacture of such potions, Such poultices designed to bend the wills of men As they are, regrettably, such malleable, lightweight notions, Not given to steadfastness or certainty of action The upshot of which sadly proved beyond my ken, A final, fatal blunder, a failing to sufficiently consider That man lacks the stability of the simple hyacinth And what he has created, God shall put asunder.