The Greatest Jest

That the mountains are hap-hazard strewn;
That the valleys sink but by a whim;
That the songs of all the birds are
But drivel from the chaos of Eternity;
That the stuff which flows through the veins
Of man, through the very arteries of his soul,
Is but a false dream, a punt essence,
Meaning nothing, apprehensive but unconvincing;
That man struts the hours, mere atoms of
The planets-hung together by desire,
Urged with no import other than that he
Express himself; that the years are nothing;
That the hours are lies, and the moments
Are forgotten, and that consequently,
Time is naught; that these whirling,
That write their orbits 'bout, write nothing;
And that the sun is but imagination
Fretted with a fever; that the moon
Is a reflection of the jest-nothing,
A great hope, through which
The white emptiness of eternity flickers!
That God is that tongueless,
All-enveloping silence,
Soft and velvety in its voluptuousness,
Acknowledged only in man's fearing, denied,
Yet acknowledged in the fact of fearing!
This is the greatest jest of all-
The jestful day of man!