There are the great gates, and the small doors,

Some open always, some of them always shut.

What's inside? we asked, and walked through.

Well, what? we can ask ourselves now, What?

Now that we've opened them all, and gone in,

Come out and gone in these hundreds of days,

We know was something of ourselves we found,

And that within something of ourselves stays.

There are doors forever; this moment; this page.

In and out the ordinary doors, the great gates,

We have passed. Next year, for the next comers,

It will be something of ourselves that waits.