In some quaint cave of crude dissymmetry Dwells Time, the monk of madness, priest to doubt. With patient hands he deftly turns about The polished wheels of one slow century, And ponders, lost in timeless ecstasy, While from his silent cell the days slip out And form, like caravans of slaves devout, A fading trail into eternity. So eons after thought and thinker die, The worlds from creeping crusts of slothful ice The blackened cindered suns cannot restore; Then Time with groping hands through lifeless sky Will search in vain for yet another rise Of rhythm and light; and Time shall be no more. |