Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/86

 All comes to Nought,— If there be nothing after Now, And we be nothing anyhow, And we know that,—why live? 'Twere sure but weaklings' vain distress To suffer dungeons where so many doors Will open on the cold eternal shores That look sheer down To the dark tideless floods of Nothingness Where all who know may drown.