So soon we pass. The wind knows why. The efforts of a century,
Three generations' handiwork failed in the twinkling of an eye.
And I was sad to think that shadows occupy us all. I had
No hope of earth. What boots a toy that thinks its maker raving mad?
My soul had passed through every phase and, counting forty thousand days,
Was farther off than at the start from comprehending heaven's ways
Or bowing to them. I came nearest when I pressed my childish ear
Earthward through briar and bramble bowers to catch the singing of the flowers.
The last remains of faith were shaken when I, the oracle, was taken.
My pride was made to sleep in chains. I prayed that I might never waken,