“Across the pale parabola of joy”
—P. G. Wodehouse, Leave It to Psmith

Across the pale parabola of joy,
Beyond the fountain spouting youthful streams,
Beneath the universal truth of dreams,
Eluding even Everyman’s envoy
And looping past the point where paradox
Is juxtaposed on marrow meeting bone,
Above the tyrannies of ticks and tocks,
The Answer lies—or stands, or sits—alone.
There, where the questions quake outside his gates,
The crux of time’s eternity awaits.