Not an if, but a when; trust
not in beginnings, but the end.
All the world’s lordly hopes
shall expire as the smoke.
Hope which is but vanity,
a distraction from true sanity.
Science shall never pose
an impediment to this close.
Surer than the poet’s rhyme
comes completion to the line.
And yet diversion do we seek
because we are so mortal weak.
False measure is not free
if coming couplet does not see;
rather should each rehearse,
“we are bound to close of verse.”
But blind we choose instead to face
the great conclusion of our race.
Like rowers who in boat do rest
deaf to the coming of the crest,
as squirrel storing food away
for a time which shall not day,
as to the theater do we go
and yet the curtain do not know.
We make our plans for a morn
in which all hopes are still-born.
