Who can think of the sun costuming clouds

When all people are shaken

Or of night endazzled, proud,

When people awaken

And cry and cry for help?

The warm antiquity of self,

Everyone, grows suddenly cold.

The tea is bad, bread sad.

How can the world so old be so mad

That the people die?

If joy shall be without a book

It lies, themselves within themselves,

If they will look

Within themselves

And cry and cry for help?

Within as pillars of the sun,

Supports of night. The tea,

The wine is good. The bread,

The meat is sweet.

And they will not die.