It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried, Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side, Nor the little child that peep’d in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again, Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall, Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder, Nor the numberless slaughter’d and wreck’d, nor the brutish koboo call’d the ordure of humanity, Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in, Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth, Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them, Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.

It is time to explain myself⁠—let us stand up.

What is known I strip away, I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.

The clock indicates the moment⁠—but what does eternity indicate?

We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety.

I do not call one greater and one smaller, That which fills its period and place is equal to any.