To Muscat. In the rhythmic stroke, old, undefeated, gnarled as oak I creaked and strained against my fate, until that Sufi-something broke. 'Twas not my heart. An inner morn put the dark age in me to scorn, And in the light I found myself, a child at play with worlds unborn, For all that I had thought and read, and fought and watched the world be led By any who contrived to cut a knot with that blunt tool, the head. I laughed to think how sparrows might look down upon our highest flight, While each succeeding age would have its oracle or stagyrite, Would trace the good we never did, the evil that we never saw, And out of our blind pyramid extract a stepping-stone to Law. Here, where ambition had to cease in servitude, I tasted peace, Free of illusion stretched and yawned. A fool would clamour for release. I make the rowers' bench a throne to think, and thought implies Alone, Of changing woods and endless streams. My happiness is all my own. And often, when my mates deplore a brother who shall row no more, I talk about my wolf-cub, Life. They think I speak in metaphor. They gather round me all agog, they think a chronicle and log Of Progress lies in withered hands. Their cry is for an epilogue. Has aught been drafted yet? A blot, an echo void and polyglot. Each century is written off as preface. Yes, most true.... Of what? My gathered weight had held me bound to find for every fog a ground, For every riddle a reply, an end to Being that goes round. Now I can say, I do not know if there will be a book at all, Or if the deepest chapters go beyond some writing on the wall, Though wiser worlds will yet embark, sworn to eclipse our sorry trades, Succeed, and leave their little mark: a dynasty of thought that fades, Fresh undergrowths of formulæ. Through these no _human_ eye can see The open glade--the _last_ crusade, in which Jerusalem might be The symbol of all peopled space, and Time an emblem of the day On which the nations march as one to liberate and not to slay. A story has no finish when it leads to nowhere out of ken? O friend, the lack of knowledge brings wisdom within the reach of men; For whether hope can ever fit the future matters not a whit. My duty is to tug my oar--so long as I am chained to it. XIX FUSION