The nameless fear for self, far hurled
By death to dissolution vile,
Fades as the royal truth is known:
Though change and sorrow range and roll,
There is no self—there is no soul!
XII.
As man, a primate risen high
Above his fellows, work thou well!
As man, an incident minute
And dim in time’s eternity,
Work well! As man, no toy for hell
And heaven to wrangle for, be mute!
Let empty speculation stir
The idle fool, the craven cur!
XIII.
Myself being idle for an hour
I dare one thing to speculate:
Namely, that life hath cusps yet higher
On this our curve: a prize, a power
Lies in our grasp: unthinking Fate
Shall build a brain to nestle nigher
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