Our world is dusty clay trampled upon the way; I do not think our breath returneth out of death.

This night, whose only home is in the strangers’ tomb; no moon, no stars here burn; to dawn how shall it turn?

The heart, whose whole desire I quenchless flame and fire, who knows, if it shall grow to lightning flash, or glow?

High fancy, passion’s glance, and life’s exuberance, fear not, for these all three dust of the road shall be.

So live, that if our death for aye continueth, God shall be shamed, to know what things He wrought below.