Wherefore

I would not see, yet must behold The lie they preach in church and hall; And question thus,--Is death then all, And life an idle tale that’s told?

The myriad wonders art hath wrought Men deem eternal as God’s love: No more than shadows these shall prove, And insubstantial, too, as thought.

And love and labor, who have gone, Hand in close hand, and civilized The wilderness, these shall be prized No more than if they had not done.

Then wherefore strive? Why strain and bend Beneath a burden so unjust-- Our works are builded of the dust, And dust our universal end.