Change lays her hand not upon the truth.
Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.
The beast faith lives on its own dung.
She knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.
His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.
Is not Precedent indeed a King of men? A Word from the Psalmist.