And again:
The goal desiderating powers at strain,
Is reached by listless sleepers with no pain:
Though panting life go struggling ceaselessly,
The to-be is, is not the not-to-be.
And once again:
Why think and think without relief?
Why weight the mind with aimless grief?
All finds fulfilment, soon or late,
If written on the brow by fate.
Or put it this way:
From distant island, central sea,
Or far horizon's brink,
Fate brings and links its wilful whims,
Before a man can wink.
Or this way:
Fate links the unlinked, unlinks links;
It links the things that no man thinks.
All life, unwilling, faces its
Unbidden doom—
Some ill, no doubt, but blessings, too—
Why sink in gloom?
And yet again:
Courageous, cultivated minds
Their fate would supervise;
But linked causation masters them,
And makes it otherwise.
And He who made the parrots green,
But made the king-swans white,
And peacocks particolored, He
Will order us aright.
