STOIC
GROAN then, groan.
For the sun is dead, and all that is in
heaven
is the pyre
of blazing gas.
And
the moon that went
so queenly, shaking her glistening beams
is dead too, a dead orb wheeled
once a month round the park.
And the five others, the travellers
they are all dead!
In the hearse of night you see
their tarnished coffins
travelling, travelling still, still
travelling
to the
end, for they are not yet buried.
Groan then, groan!
Groan then, for even the maiden
earth
is dead, we
run wheels across her corpse.
Oh groan
groan with mighty groans!
But for all that, and all that
“ in the centre of your being,
groan not.”
In the
centre of your being, groan not, do not groan.
For perhaps the greatest of all
illusions
is this
illusion of the death of the undying.