My staff is broken and the scroll I read
A thousand nights like this lies crumpled where
I flung it as with fevered brow I fled
In mocking disillusion and despair
From burnt-out wicks still sputtering in the oil
Of self-illumination with the quizz
“What am I? What the infinite I Am?”
God! If the answer were in spirit-toil
Or as the echo of Whatever Is!
The stars smile down on me undimmed and calm.