That no one knows how best he may escape.
What though one day with rational brightness beams,
The night entangles us in webs of dreams.
From our young fields of life we come, elate:
There croaks a bird; what croaks he? Evil fate!
By superstition constantly ensnared,
It grows to us and warns and is declared.
Intimidated thus we stand alone.—
The portal jars, yet entrance is there none.
Is any one here?