I was the world in which I walked.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.