The self of man is ocean vast, and knows no depth or bound: If you take it for a stream, how can your mind be sound?

The magic of this whirling dome we can set at naught: Not of stone but of glass its building has been wrought.

In Holy Trance in self we drown, and up we rise again; but how a worthless man can show so much might and main?

Your rank and state cannot be told by one who reads the stars: You are living dust, in sooth, not ruled by Moon or Mars.

The maids of Ed’n and Gabriel eke in this world can be found, but, alas! You lack as yet glances bold and zeal profound.

My craze has judged aright the bent of times wherein I am born: Love be thanked for granting me the gown entire and untorn.

Spite of Nature’s bounty great, its guarding practice, mark! It grants the ruby reddish hue, but denies the heat of spark.