When the river dries and bed is bare
And into the night sky for the thousandth time stare
When the summit’s attained and the prize is gained
What’s left?
Should one seek new heights and more apexes to touch
More chasms to cross or rivers to ford
Records to break, increase the stakes
or bring recklessness to the fore?
Is the value in adventure or finishing the quest?
Is it fighting the war or the wisdom of regret?
Each achievement mundane, drudgery in the sane
Yet pleasure abounding, accounts for nothing
Because novelty falls in pattern again
To assent, to dissent, rejoice or lament
Ecstasy or agony, order and anarchy
Makes no difference, all is unified at a distance
Neither pattern or chaos succeeds to arouse
Nothing profound, nothing astounds
Everywhere, somewhere, nowhere; ‘don’t care
Can’t titillate, can’t stimulate, just dissipate, stagnate.
Keats
01-13-09
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