To be free of belief and unbelief is my religion.
The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
The rose that once has bloomed forever dies.
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
There was a door to which I found no key: There was the veil through which I might not see.
This clay, so strong of heart, of sense so fine,Surely such clay is more than half divine--'Tis only fools speak evil of the clay,The very stars are made of clay like mine.