Recalled

Long after there were none of them alive About the place—where there is now no place But a walled hole where fruitless vines embrace Their parent skeletons that yet survive In evil thorns—none of us could arrive At a more cogent answer to their ways Than one old Isaac in his latter days Had humor or compassion to contrive. I mentioned them, and Isaac shook his head: “The Power that you call yours and I call mine Extinguished in the last of them a line That Satan would have disinherited. When we are done with all but the Divine, We die.” And there was no more to be said.