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94 QUADRILLE OF THE NAKED CONTOURS At the end of night, and at end of day, When the substance burns till it burns away, And nothing stands by our burned-out seas But some birches stripped to the soul of trees; And nothing hangs in the upper zones Of the crystal clear but the neutron bones Of the white dwarf stars, like a ring of stones— Then the Absolutes in their lucent cords Will rise and dance on the burned-out swards. Then the Theorems come, with their lines made clear And the Formulae from the dark appear— Then the Postulates and Hypotheses— And the Zero drift from behind the trees With its minus sign—and the Circle roll And close itself, in itself made whole. . . . Then the constant “h” with its frigid thews— And the Quanta flow with their retinues— Transparent forms—in that utter still Will move and dance in their cold quadrille— Abstractions’ host—and the neutron bones Of the white dwarf stars, like a ring of stones— And then, and then, from the neutron rocks Will rise the skein of the Paradox. ...

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