To the man who is afraid everything rustles.
If to some my tale seems foolishness I am content that such could count me fool.
In darkness one may be ashamed of what one does, without the shame of disgrace.
Yet I pity the poor wretch, though he's my enemy. He's yoked to an evil delusion, but the same fate could be mine. I see clearly: we who live are all phantoms, fleeing shadows.
When I have tried and failed, I shall have failed.
Know'st not whate'er we do is done in love?