Ignoble are the dreams that make of you
Mere ante-room; and ante-room to—what?
True to original and terminal earth,
Rather may royal man, ensphered so fair,
His chemic end not thanklessly salute,
When too soon, from our arc of known content,
We blunder, poor blithe faces, to the Void.
That spark once fallen, can it live again?
If poets weep, if just Aurelius
Evade, if wistful Plato pause unsure,