Here at the quiet limit of the world.
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.
France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.
It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.