Thy fate is seeking thee,

Fear not! Fear not!

Nor hither, thither run, with puny strain

Of frenzied fingers on this closèd door,

Or that, to find her. Leave thy worse than vain

And feverish seeking; fret thy soul no more,

Nor vex the heavens with ineffectual cries;

Fate will adjust her perfect harmonies

And weave thee in.

Spin thy plain thread--'tis wanted soon or late;

No friend will seek thee out so sure as Fate.

One spring of youth have we. When that is o'er,

And summer's fleeting dream, then, dear my friends,

Our autumn days run on to wintry ends,

Whose breath is chill. Lo, Age is at the door!

When two have met, and caught in sudden gleams

Life's full completeness measured each in each,

There is no silence evermore; what seems

So, verily is the very gold of speech.

Life is a riddle we die in guessing.