I Wonder More And More

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.

Are We No Greater Than The Noise We Make Along One Blind Atomic Pilgrimage Whereon By Crass Chance Billeted We Go Because Our Brains And Bones And Cartilage Will Have It So?

I Shall Have More To Say When I Am Dead.

And Thus We All Are Nighing The Truth We Fear To Know: Death Will End Our Crying For Friends That Come And Go.

I Wonder More And More Just Where I May Have Come Out If I Had Never Seen Harvard Square.