no hell. It is all a dream — grotesque and foolish dream. 

 Nothing exists but you. 



And you are but a thought, a useless thought, a homeless 

 thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities." 



Some of us, those of the highest intellectual order, can say : 

 "In nature's infinite book of secrecy 

 A little I can read," 

 but who, even the materialist, adopting as his creed, 



"De niliilo nihil; in nihilum nil posse reverti," 

 can satisfy the longing for a compelling satisfaction of the great 

 question — What of the hereafter? 



"Into this Universe, and JVhy not knowing 

 Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing; 



And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, 

 I know not IVhither, willy-nilly blowing. 



"What, without asking, hither hurried Whence? 

 And, without asking. Whither hurried hence! 

 Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine 

 Must drown the memory of that insolence !" 



"La vie est vaine : 

 Un peu d'amour 

 Un peu de haine — 

 Et puis-bonjour ! 



La vie est breve 



Un peu d'espoir, 

 Un peu de reve 



Et puis-bonjour." 



Perhaps, when the record of our weaknesses, our frailties 

 and our sins shall be read. — as some believe and all hope, 

 "II y aura amnistie generale." 





33 



