What is my faith, the faith in which I die? It is the faith of modern thought; it is the faith of the ages. It is a spiritual Pantheism, an impassioned Agnosticism.
A Presence am I; what is my source I know not, nor can I ever know. The moral fact I know, my will; and I take it as I find it, and rejoice in the making of beauty.
Do I believe that I ever shall live again? I know that I shall not. I do not insult His perfection and my faith, with the wish that such as I should be immortal. What I have He gave me; it is His, and He will take it. I have no rights, and I have no claims. I see not why He should give me ages because He has given me an hour. He never turns back, He never makes over again—that I know.
—And neither do I ask rewards; my life was beautiful, I bless Him for every prayer. I ask Him not that He cover the fair painting with whitewash.
I have no fear of Oblivion. I have no thoughts about it. There are no thoughts in Oblivion.
The days when thou wert not, did they trouble thee? The days when thou art not shall trouble thee as much.