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Although on earth are firm established lives, A working of habit or a sense of law, A steady repetition in the flux, Yet are its roots of will ever the same; These passions are the stuff of which we are made.

Creator of this game of ray and shade In this sweet and bitter paradoxical life, Asks from the body the soul's intimacies And by the swift vibration of a nerve Links its mechanic throbs to light and love.

It was a vain unnecessary world Whose will to be brought poor and sad results And meaningless suffering and a grey unease. Nothing seemed worth the labour to become.

Ascending slowly with unconscious steps, A foundling of the Gods she wanders here Like a child-soul left near the gates of Hell Fumbling through fog in search of Paradise.

A world that ever seeks for something missed, Hunts for the joy that earth has failed to keep.

When earth was built in the unconscious Void And nothing was save a material scene, Identified with sea and sky and stone Her young gods yearned for the release of souls Asleep in objects, vague, inanimate.

There reigned a breath of high immune content, A fortunate gait of days in tranquil air, A flood of universal love and peace.