I saw a flie within a beade Of amber cleanly buried.

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold; New things succeed, as former things grow old.

Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep A little out, and then, As if they played at bo-peep, Did soon draw in again.

There's nothing in the middle of the road but a yellow stripe and dead armadillos.

The appeal to heaven breaks off. The petals begin to fall, in self-forgiveness. It is a flower. On this mountainside it is dying.

All beings come from little, and little is needed for them to come to nothing.