To a Materialist

And can it be
That all the realms of sky above
(Tokens, I thought them, of His love)
Are not for me?

And that my life
Is but an accidental gleam
Within the vastly-moving stream
Of dead, remorseless circumstance?
From fiery chaos to an icy grave?

How, then, must I
Be rational in a crooked universe?
Where all must die,
And life and death are meaningless?

Nay, rather should I refuge in
A pleasureful oblivion,
Sad mirth and wine,
Delirious balm of idiocy,
. . . the thrill of crime.

—B.A.S.