The Last Man

By George Sterling

Shall that august and uncompanioned one,
    Searching the skies a hundred ages hence,
    Behold upon their solitude the immense
Expiring globe of the defeated sun,
And, knowing that the starry race is run,
    Feel on his brow, sad for Time's afterglow,
    The softly falling paces of the snow,
Soundless as lions' feet in Babylon?

Or, shall he, housed below the planet's crust,
    And weary of the mystery of all,
        Gaze on the engines that his brain has planned,
And near to the nirvana of the dust,
    Accept its old compassion, letting fall
        A giant lever from a nerveless hand?

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