Earth is caught turning as one Gordian knot. It has always. In contempt of superstition, these entanglements order ancient means. That is to say, this world still turns on the edges of blades.

And though

this teeming, soured overworld will never know the men who wield them - they on whom the sleep of multitudes rests have been, to me, friends.

And though

this task lies heavy on my soul, there is relief in remembering - time was sainted sweet with Joy and Friendship for a season. Ye, I have lived a blessed life.

And so I will remember.

Per Whitman:

And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present,

        and can be none in the future,

And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may

        be turn’d to beautiful results,

And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful

        than death,

And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and

        events are compact,

And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles,

        each as profound as any

Yes.

This cold and ugly universe of Things; may God smile upon us yet.