Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting,
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar.
A pebble, thrown into the mighty sea,
Sinks, and disturbs not its tranquillity:
No ocean, but a shallow pool, the man,
Whom very little wrong disquiet can.
Two more small entries in my scrap-book.
No comments:
Post a Comment