And spurn the vanity

Of time’s delusive years,

And all its flattering hopes, and all its frowning fears.

What is the ground ye tread

But a mere point compared with that vast space

Around, above you spread—

Where, in the Almighty’s face,

The present, future, past, hold an eternal place?

From the Spanish of Luis Ponce de Leon.

We walk amid delusions here,