Sung on a By-way
WHAT of all the will to do?	
It has vanished long ago,	
For a dream-shaft pierced it through	
From the Unknown Archer’s bow.	

What of all the soul to think?	
Some one offered it a cup	
Filled with a diviner drink,	
And the flame has burned it up.	

What of all the hope to climb?	
Only in the self we grope	
To the misty end of time:	
Truth has put an end to hope.	

What of all the heart to love?	
Sadder than for will or soul,	
No light lured it on above;	
Love has found itself the whole.