Brief and pitifully powerless is Man's life;
on him and all his folks’ race  the slow,
sure doomsday  falls pitiless and hellish dark
Blind to good and tops turvydom of  evil,
reckless of inferno in the life’s destruction,
omnipotent matter rolls on its imperious way;
for Man condemned to-day to lose his dearest,
to-morrow is starkly  beyond  himself
only  to pass through the gate of darkness,
for thus  it remains only to cherish all,
ere yet the deadly blow falls centre-head,
the lofty thoughts that ennoble his whimsical day;
disdaining the cowardly terrors of the slave of Fate,
to worship desperately  at the shrine
that his own hands have humanly  built;
undismayed by the empire of brutality of  chance,
to preserve a mind free from the wanton tyranny
that rules his outward life garlanded by ego;
proudly defiant of the non-combatable forces that tolerate,
for a moment his knowingness and his condemnation,
to sustain alone a weary but unyielding shrugged Atlas,
the world that his own stupid genius  have fashioned
despite the conquering recconnoitre of unconscious power.