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Whose thirst the flowers' sweet petals satiate,
While leaves and stalks formed hitherto thy fare.
Perfected so in shape, in hue, in wants,
Live on thy circled life mid earthly haunts.


And I?—Like thee I have a web to spin,
A tegument for my immortal soul:
The finer, purer threads I weave therein,
The sooner I shall reach my destined goal.
For when the rays of heavenly suns begin
To pour their light on me from serial pole.
My spirit, like thy butterfly, shall soar
Its lofty, radiant flight for evermore.
Hence hope and strive and falter not, my heart!
Thou shalt exist for all eternity!
Diffused, enlarged, thou shalt become a part
Of other beings, yet to rise and be!
How far, how widely, rests with thee; thou art
The own creator of thy destiny:
Therefore aim well, aim high for genuine truth:
It holds thy fount of everlasting youth.

[He sits down on a grassy knoll, and becomes lost in deep reverie]