I asked a lofty sage what Life might be. ‘The wine whose bitterest cup is best’, said he.

Said I, ‘A vile worm rearing head from mire.’ Said he, ‘A salamander born of fire.’

‘Its nature steeped in evil’, I pursued. Said he, ’Tis just this evil makes it good.’

‘It winds not to the goal, though it aspire.’ ‘The goal’, said he, ‘lies hid in that desire.’

Said I, ‘Of earth it comes, to earth it goes.’ Said he, ‘The seed bursts earth, and is the rose.’