Strange Mathematics Drive Us

Strange mathematics drive us from the sun And hurtle us towards chaos. Soon, as time Is measured outside earthly Christendom, Our life will die in us, and all this rhyme Will lose its reason, end in something else— Perhaps an emptiness, perhaps the stir Of wave-lengths beating coldly on the shells Of planets.

Here below we mew and purr

Contenting us with words our fathers spoke, Still calling names we cannot understand, Afraid to look beyond the frail smoke Of our home chimney, holding in our hand A book of numbers to guide us without thought Past and below the heavenly Argonaut.