When all the brooks have run away,

When the sea has left its place,

When the dead earth to night and day

Turns round a stony face,

Let other planets hold the strife

And burden now it bears,

The toil of ages, lifting life

Up those unnumbered stairs,

Out of that death no eye has seen

To something far and high;

But underneath the stairs, Faustine,

How melancholy lie

The broken shards and left behind,

The frustrate and unfit,

Who sought the infinite and kind,

And found the infinite.