As for the meanest monad, knit
To man by mightier bonds than skill
Of subtle-souled psychology
May sever. Aim in chaos? None.
The soul rolls senseless as the sun.
III.
Existence, as we know it, spins
A fatal warp, a woof of woe.
There is no place for God or soul.
Works, hopes, prayers, sacrifices, sins
Are jokes. The cosmos happened so:
Innocent all of guide or goal.
Else, what were man’s appointed term?
To feed God’s friend, the coffn-worm!
Iv.
Laugh, thou immortal Lesbian!
Thy verse runs down the runic ages.
Where shalt thou be when sun and star,
My sun, my star, the vault that span,
Rush in their rude, impassive rages
Down to some centre guessed afar
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