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The Cynic
17 September 1944
The passions of my youth have burned me dry And unrequited dreams stand in my eyes. They were my hopes, and now they ill disguise My futile gesturings. They pass me by.
I would admit no mystery so high As to be sacred from my questing pries, Nor would I seek defeat in compromise But stood athwart the sky-winds; such was I.
The bright-eyed dreams of youth are dead and gone, My destiny is done, my die is cast. Perhaps there will be surcease with the dawn;
Perhaps, but I have thought that in the past. The wheeling universe grinds on and on Insensible, insatiate, and vast.
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