A long cold minute as you ponder what I say,

But what's the matter in the end if the end isn't anyway,

The old stars, if they are, frown down upon us.

The bold bards, if they were, drown crowns upon us.

But who are we to measure such things?

Such minutes when time is warped though time with wings

And the boundless world which we limit suddenly become more domineering

And the groundless claims which were Plymouth slowly rum-run racketeering

They stand undivided

By the man presided.

A looping gradient of cosmic dust,

A circle of radiant sonic rust,

Slowly halting?

Are we exalting?

The mending of the Jeraboam?

The ending of the poem?