Wednesday, January 16, 2008
?
Whomsoever I possess,
Finds the world but nothingness;
Gloom descends on him forever
Seeing sunrise, sunset, never;
Though his senses are not wrong,
Darknesses with him throng,
Who—of all that may own—
Never owns himself alone.
Luck, ill luck, become but fancy;
Starving in the midst of plenty,
Be it rapture, be it sorrow,
He postpones it till to-morrow,
Fixed upon futurity,
Can never really come to be.
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