The Song of (X, Y) the Point

(After John Masefield.)

I must go off' to Infinity
To the lonely circular points,
Where the parallels meet, as if in their length
They were fitted with angular joints.
And all I ask is a very small thing,
That's often called epsilon,
That I can approach as near as you please
Though many a mile on!

I must go off to Infinity
To the line called Z equals nought.
Which parabolas touch, and hyperbolas cut
In real points, so it's thought.
And all I ask is a limit to reach,
For you can't say I'm in clover.
My force, periodic, disturbs me much.
Till the long trip's over.