What a measureless sweep, what a mighty girth,
From the far off first to the end of all things!
The end of the rose, which fades in a day,
The purpose of the plant an age on the way—
I dream of Beauty in the end of things.
The end of all men, and the end of myself,
From the artist great to the smallest elf,
Our thoughts and our deeds in the end of things.
The fate of the infants who die without ken,
Of their growth and knowledge, God’s super-men—