What mystery has poesy?
What purpose has its measured art?
Why ask, “To be or not to be,”
when tragedy assails the heart?
What destiny has the poet?
What fated wonders wait for him?
How best do his verses show it
when other’s light become more dim?
These hidden lines from cryptic clime
have kept the mysteries that bind,
that bind forever in dank time
to be of all-concealing kind!
These questions from old, ancient rime
have plagued unknowing, empty minds;
what won’t be known in surly time
will show itself in what man finds.