Saint, revolutionist, God and sage know well, That there is a place Where that much-rung bell, The well-beloved body, And its sensitive face Must be sacrificed. There is, it seems, in this A something meaningless, Hanging without support And yet too dear to touch, That life should seek its end Where no will can descend, Facing a gun to see Long actuality. What is this that is The good of nothingness, The death of Socrates And that strange man on the cross Seeking out all loss? For men love life until It shames both face and will. Neither in hell nor heaven Is the answer given, Both are a servant's pay: But they wish to know how far the will can go, Lest their infinite play And their desires be Shadow and mockery.