IGo search the æons an you willWhere withered leaves of Doubt are whirled,And who hath solved this riddle, Life,Or Death - that moves with sails unfurled,Beyond the straining eyes of manMarooned upon an unknown world.IINor tongue hath told, nor vision caughtThat paradox. Primeval Cause;Each age has had some parableEach age succeeding marked the flaws;While shifted, with the calendar,What men have termed generic laws.IIICreed after creed behold them nowLike Etna on Vesuvius piled;Till, scaled to earth by drifting sandsThey lie in later days reviled,And pushed aside by Time"s rough handAs toys are, by a peevish child.
