  What of all the will to do? It has vanished long ago, For a dream-shaft pierced it through From the Unknown Archer's bow. What of all the soul to think? Some one offered it a cup Filled with a diviner drink, And the flame has burned it up. What of all the hope to climb? Only in the self we grope To the misty end of time: Truth has put an end to hope. What of all the heart to love? Sadder than for will or soul, No light lured it on above; Love has found itself the whole. A.E. |
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