12

On the Scientific Train

Before the traveler dare embark

he treats his destination sure,

himself his own heresiarch,

the plodden dream his sinecure.

He asks, not “Am I worthy, Lord?”

but “Is it really worth my while?”

Takes out his notebook to record

the passing country mile by mile.

And if the answer comes at all

(that’s if the train is not derailed)

he never once can quite recall

what proof lurked in the Dark light veiled.

Half blind, he stumbles out at last

assaulted by the sun-hard street.

Oh dreamer, is dream yet or past?

Oh hierarch, where step your feet?