Cryptic lines on the mysteries and enigma of ancient poesy and old rime.
What purpose has its measured art?
Why ask, “To be or not to be,”
when tragedy assails the heart?
What destiny has the poet?
What fated wonders wait for him?
How best do his verses show it
when other’s light become more dim?
These hidden lines from cryptic clime
have kept the mysteries that bind,
that seal for all of turbid time
to be of enigmatic kind.
These questions of old, ancient rime
have plagued unwitting, empty minds;
what won’t be known in obscure time
will show itself in what man finds.