who’s not imagined lying dead and cold,
moved so much beauty had to disappear?
Who, satisfied, does from the grave not hear
virtues known only to himself extolled?
Who hasn’t quietly thought: How strange it seems
that all will simply go on as before,
and that the cosmos will feel what’s in store
still worth the trouble when it’s lost its gleam?
The one who knows, or feels by vague instinct,
that when he dies, a world will with him sink,
reality to him, vision to God,
that from the very Being of his spirit
rose all that’s ever been of any merit,
will also likewise think– and fool he’s not.