Of high unrest, no awful afterglow
Affrights us simple ones when that we die.
Vain flickering lamps soon quenchéd—we but go
From this brief day, this short transition,
This interlude of farcial joy and woe,
Back to our native, kind oblivion.
Can this be Moti, she who prates of being,
And life, and death, and fallacy, and moan?
Ah, how should I be fixed and steadfast? seeing
All things about me shift, I need must change;