Of Nature I sing my praise, my lord!
For all the events of history will die,
As the morns, the nights deify;
For the fire, solace in ashes finds,
And in the annals, the worm resides;
For the flower in lover's hand dies,
And the stream, in desert belies;
For all the harms and wrongs we do,
Void will eat our nothingness too;
She grows and grows till the doom,
'Thousand years a little room!'