It is not by shunning darkness, that Men may know light:
Not by treading o'er Holy fields of wood, alive, and of stone, alive;
And, high in the rooms of that barren house,
They are re-assembling language, to keep realities out.

I Will them each this:

I know their credentials, and I know they will soon tell,

In this game of reeds, and in the reason of the spell.
My burning attachment holds fast to contingencies,
For who wills the end, may will the means,

When it's only Fools and Firebrands,
The Books of Law lie tattered in the arsonist's hands;
Pretend to know me, and I will pretend to care,

And nothing lasts which hesitates.

Is there Time to collect the stones, and what our guards left behind?
Is there Time still to stray out of being, and out of Time?

I know your credentials, I know your gambler's tell,

Embracing that prophesied death,

You know so well.