What Truths hath gleaned that Sage consumed
by many a moon that waxt and waned?
What Prophet-strain be his to sing?
What hath his old Experience gained?
There is no God, no man-made God;
a bigger, stronger, crueller man;
Black phantom of our baby-fears,
ere Thought, the life of Life, began.
Right quoth the Hindu Prince of old,*
“An Ishwara for one I nill,
Th’ almighty everlasting Good
who cannot ’bate th’ Eternal Ill:”
“Your gods may be, what shows they are?”
hear China’s Perfect Sage declare;*
“And being, what to us be they
who dwell so darkly and so far?”
“All matter hath a birth and death;
’tis made, unmade and made anew;
“We choose to call the Maker ‘God’:—
such is the Zâhid’s owly view.
“You changeful finite Creatures strain”
(rejoins the Drawer of the Wine)*
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