Thus People--so It Seems To Me-- Become

'tis Time, My Friend, 'tis Time! For Rest The Heart Is Aching; Days Follow Days In Flight, And Every Day Is Taking, Fragments Of Being, While Together You And I, Make Plans To Live. Look, All Is Dust, And We Shall Die.

It's A Lucky Man, A Very Lucky Man, Who Is Committed To What He Believes, Who Has Stifled Intellectual Detachment And Can Relax In The Luxury Of His Emotions - Like A Tipsy Traveller Resting For The Night At Wayside Inn.

Thus People--so It Seems To Me-- Become Good Friends From Sheer Ennui.

I Have Outlasted All Desire, My Dreams And I Have Grown Apart; My Grief Alone Is Left Entire, The Gleamings Of An Empty Heart. The Storms Of Ruthless Dispensation Have Struck My Flowery Garland Numb, I Live In Lonely Desolation And Wonder When My End Will Come. Thus On A Naked Tree-limb, Blasted By Tardy Winter's Whistling Chill, A Single Leaf Which Has Outlasted Its Season Will Be Trembling Still.

Please, Never Despise The Translator. He's The Mailman Of Human Civilization.