Sent all those million miles
To flash that terminal crater here
In dust-size dots
For men to peer
At in the files;
And, too,
To show, in martial play,
What we could do,
Let’s say,
To the waste lots.

Must they, their turn come due,
Still quiver in this scarce a choice,
Still agonize
With no more voice
While the torn few
Who have to weigh up all,
With x for guide,
And call
How’s, But’s and Why’s?

Mere Mariner, well could you
Across the gulf you’ve overstepped
Know how to mind:
What terms accept
What then to do;
While we,
So long ago sent up,
Launched but to learn to see,
End up

This Issue

November 11, 1965