In the small circle of pain within the skull You still shall tramp and tread one endless round Of thought, to justify your action to yourselves, Weaving a fiction which unravels as you weave, Pacing forever in the hell of make-believe Which never is belief: this is your fate on earth And we must think no further of you.

In life there is not time to grieve long But this, this is out of life, this is out of time, An instant eternity of evil and wrong.

We praise thee, O God, for thy glory displayed in all the creatures of the earth, In the snow, in the rain, in the wind, in the storm, in all of thy creatures,…

We did not wish anything to happen. We understood the private catastrophe, The personal loss, the general misery, Living and partly living;