Wherefore

I would not see, yet must behold

The truth they preach in church and hall;

And question so,— Is death then all,

And life an idle tale that's told?

The myriad wonders art hath wrought

I deemed eternal as God's love:

No more than shadows these shall prove,

And insubstantial as a 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 out of dust,

And dust their universal end.