Birth of the word is by agony molded,
Through earthly life it is quietly going,
It is a stranger, which drinks from the golden
Pitcher the drops of the savages mourning.
Go to Nature! The Nature is hostile,
All here is frightening, all is in fullness,
There are the trumpets here, singing the docile
Psalms to the Lord, apathetic and useless.
Death? But before you must weight with exactness,
This tale of poets, and be very clever
You wont be sorry for light and lifes greatness
But for a thought which is reigning forever.
There is the way that is high and severe:
Bitterly cry with the winds, wild and bitter,
Live with the beggars in dens of a bear,
Frame the dark dreams in a mold of the meter.
