The Eternal Question

Is this the end? a gravestone and no more?
Must all the dreams that we have dreamed together
So come to nothing, like mere changing weather?
Must our dear hope of life, just winged to soar,
Be snatched back from the great Blue bending o'er,
Drawn down by some cruel master's wanton tether
And dashed with broken pinion, draggled feather
Back to the earth — is this all life's poor lore?
Oh, if it is, it's all I wish to know:
I would be no poor dupe of faiths unseen
Nor lean my heart's weight on a lying staff —
Let all creation back to silence go
Becoming its own monstrous epitaph.
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