What is the world’s true Bible — ‘tis the highest thought of man,
The thought distilled through ages since the dawn of thought began.
And each age adds a word thereto, some psalm or promise sweet —
And the canon is unfinished and forever incomplete.
O’er the chapters that are written, long and lovingly we pore —
But the best is yet unwritten, for we grow from more to more.
Let us heed the voice within us and its messages rehearse;
Let us build the growing Bible — for we too must write a verse.
What is the purport of the scheme toward which all time is gone?
What is the great aeonian goal? The joy of going on.
And are there any souls so strong, such feet with swiftness shod,
That they shall reach it, reach some bourne, the ultimate of god?
There is no bourne, no ultimate. The very farthest star
But rims a sea of other stars that stretches just as far.
There’s no beginning and no end: As in the ages gone,
The greatest joy of joys shall be — the joy of going on.
© Sam Walter Foss