The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.

[A]nd soon now we shall go out of the house and go into the convulsion of the world, out of history into history and the awful responsibility of Time.

There was nothing particularly wrong with them; they were just the ordinary garden variety of human garbage.

History is not melodrama, even if it usually reads like that.

Yet the definition we have made of ourselves is ourselves. To break out of it, we must make a new self. But how can the self make a new self when the selflessness which it is, is the only substance from which the new self can be made?

I longed to know the world's name.

And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us. That is what all of us historical researchers believe. And we love truth.