This is a world, that like to it,
Each boundless is, and infinite,
An image each, a fantasy,
A smoke-wave from the torch in me.
Two moments this and that endure,
I only everlasting, sure;
That of but little worth, as this,
My self the sole true coin is.
Here to abide, and there to dwell,
Both here and there a little spell;
What is my labour, here and there?
The lamentation of despair!
This world and that my path waylay,
In this and that is loss my pay;
Each my brief nest and dwelling-place
Both let me kindle, and both raze!