The Consolation of Philosophy · 45 of 78

Book III, Song VIII: Human Folly

Alas! how wide astray Doth Ignorance these wretched mortals lead From Truth’s own way! For not on leafy stems Do ye within the green wood look for gold, Nor strip the vine for gems;

Your nets ye do not spread Upon the hill-tops, that the groaning board With fish be furnishèd; If ye are fain to chase The bounding goat, ye sweep not in vain search The ocean’s ruffled face.

The sea’s far depths they know, Each hidden nook, wherein the waves o’erwash The pearl as white as snow; Where lurks the Tyrian shell, Where fish and prickly urchins do abound, All this they know full well.

But not to know or care Where hidden lies the good all hearts desire— This blindness they can bear; With gaze on earth low-bent, They seek for that which reacheth far beyond The starry firmament.

What curse shall I call down On hearts so dull? May they the race still run For wealth and high renown! And when with much ado The false good they have grasped—ah, then too late!— May they discern the true!