Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'/Let us go and make our visit.

The circle of our understanding is a very restricted area.

If time and space, as sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity.

There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.

And they write innumerable books; being too vain and distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and dodging his emptiness.

And all shall be well and/ All manner of thing shall be well/ By the purification of the motive/ In the ground of our beseeching

What we know of other people's only our memory of the moments during which we knew them.