We called upon Osymandrias fame,
For we are travellers, too, though not downcast.
Have walked the boundless tract, though not in vain,
And live to give the lie to his forecast.
For Shelley’s verse outlives his sad augurs:
Blocks scientific knowledge which reveals
That matter’s indestructible, endures
To shape another form it just conceals.
Now near the journey’s end we tread foothills,
And lift our eyes to view the promised rest
Which all our arduous pilgrimage fulfils:
Our faith, our hope, our love, our Everest.
What’s life if there’s no meaning to be found?
Just ‘how’ and ‘what’ and ‘which’ - no WHY to sound.