Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.
Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.
Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
Truth is within ourselves. There is an inmost center in us all, where the truth abides in fullness.
What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.