Long after there were none of them alive
About the placewhere there is now no place
But a walled hole where fruitless vines embrace
Their parent skeletons that yet survive
In evil thornsnone of us could arrive
At a more cogent answer to their ways
Than one old Isaac in his latter days
Had humor or compassion to contrive.
I mentioned them, and Isaac shook his head:
The Power that you call yours and I call mine
Extinguished in the last of them a line
That Satan would have disinherited.
When we are done with all but the Divine,
We die. And there was no more to be said.
