That Life’s dank weeds, might flowers bloom.
’Tis on the scroll, graved deep, that I now pay,
And Life must quaff the poison’d wine;
But Love and Hope, if star-strewn on the way,
Can purify the living vine.
O Soul, the tallied years of men count not,
For life eternal sweepeth back;
As life unending is predestined lot,
And I am I, from love, from rack!
This vibrant flame, entombed in human clay,