Chapter XVII

Alas, must we accept the weight of years
And find us nothing more than tranquil folk
Who give each other infantile caress
At eve, when hearth is quick with flame and smoke?

Our dear belongings, shall they see us then
Creeping from the hearth to wooden chest,
To reach the window leaning on the wall,
Sitting to give our tottering bodies rest?

If such a day must then affirm our ruin
And show the torpor brain or body fears,
In spite of this fate we shall not complain,
But keep within our breasts our captive tears.

For we shall guard these eyes of ours to watch
For morn to follow night so pitiful,
And see the sun of dawn burn on this life,
Making of earth itself a miracle.