IT is most true -- and most untrue! Though all should die of Me and You And all of later men who press This weary ball, 'tis like, no less, That our stray thistle-down of thought Claimed of some winnowing breeze, and brought To some safe seeding-place, may lie Securely there, and fructify; And -- in a world still out of joint -- May serve some bard for starting-point Of some yet larger utterance whence New bards shall borrow, aeons hence. What skills it then, though We be done: Our thought is living -- and lives on! |