So it is Life not Death that still decreeth
The weary doom that we must wax and wane
In ceaseless change, and know no ease from pain,
No rest from toil but such as death agreeth.
This life is then the shadow which so fleeth—
The shadow we would seek to stay in vain,—
And from this shadow, of all joy the bane,
It is not Life, but Death itself that freeth.

But though in such surcease we see the door
To further change, the Being that has past
Forth from this house of Life we know no more;
Life is to us a shadow first and last;
Only this truth stands firmer than before:
Substance exists; else were no shadow cast.