They gather round me all agog, they think a chronicle and log
Of Progress lies in withered hands. Their cry is for an epilogue.
Has aught been drafted yet? A blot, an echo void and polyglot.
Each century is written off as preface. Yes, most true.... Of what?
My gathered weight had held me bound to find for every fog a ground,
For every riddle a reply, an end to Being that goes round.
Now I can say, I do not know if there will be a book at all,
Or if the deepest chapters go beyond some writing on the wall,
Though wiser worlds will yet embark, sworn to eclipse our sorry trades,
Succeed, and leave their little mark: a dynasty of thought that fades,