Three Epitaphs on Himself

HERE my journey’s end I find,

Rugged, hard, and void of rule;

Clear I saw, and yet was blind,

I was wise and yet a fool.

Slowly to the hole I’ve got

Which nor fool nor sage can fly,

To travel—whither I know not.

So good luck, Piron, and good-by!

Wayfaring friend, who fain wouldst know from me

What erst I was. I nothing chose to be;

My life a blank. Sure, I was well discerning;

For he shows monstrous folly after all,

Who, sprung from naught, and soon to naught returning,

Longs to be something in the interval.

III

His unregarded grave here Piron has,

Who naught, not e’en Academician, was.