The shrines of old are broken down;
the faiths that knelt at them are dead.
Nothing’s strange, and nought unknown:
all’s been done and all been said.
Tired of knowledge, now we sigh
for a little mystery.
Yet, howsoever science delves,
a few things still unplumbed remain.
We know all things save ourselves,
cannot will our joy or pain.
Mysteries our hearts enthral;
and love’s the strangest of them all.
From : Funny Poems
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