The poet will die, but nature will go on. as usual, each passing hour will bring its pleasure or pain. As death is near, the poet is concerned with spiritual things and no more with material wealth. Nature makes no distinction between the rich and the poor.
I KNOW that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives.
Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got – let them pass. Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked.
