“A fool you are,” she said,

“Weaving dreams of blue

Deceiving sky. Evening folds them all

And what are you?

Squanderers of centuries and hours

Hold only faded flowers.”

“And why should I,” I answered,

“Walk among the dead?

And you are dead a million years,

The wolves are fed.

A fool who eats the leavings of the Wise,

Who tells me that he dies?”