Alas this of the sciences before long,
Signals devastating consequences of those in pursuit,
That those pursued the numbers be the monsters,
For practical as they are the interpreters are worse the same,
For thy conclusion do transform this way,
Before my eyes hail this success you boast to have;

Though no greater success endures than that of happiness;
Where to prove me wrong that mathematics does the good,
So that is practical, and so is leisure for all our lives endured,
And requires no proof thereof, though this science does;
Proof of which can utterly be found by seeking the answers;
That answer of my death writ upon this close, and so prove it:
For my age given this; do linger here and spell me forth,
Where to show that science can make the science of me,
And shall I show that my religion be the religion of me;
Though know one cannot make a religion out of science; nor a science out of religion,

Prepare this so, where I show how this maths is not the eternality of life;
For those engaged in such practice never enjoy the truest aspect of life;
Whether a priest or a scientist, it matters not; for all us as equals,
Still in pursuit of a science; yet why so when science does not pursue us?
To enlighten you; your love of this sport is hardly equal to mine, son.

Family, Mysterious, Nature, Poetry, Works
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