There is no hope the future will but turn the old sand in the falling glass of time.

There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We grow like flowers, and bear desire, the odor of the human flowers.

We love in others what we lack ourselves, and would be everything but what we are.

Silence is the speech of love, The music of the spheres above.

There is no death-the thing that we call death Is but another, sadder name for life, Which is itself an insufficient name, Faint recognition of that unknown life- That Power whose shadow is the Universe.

There is no hope the future will but turn the old sand in the falling glass of time.