XCIX

A DEW sufficed itself

   And satisfied a leaf,

And felt, “how vast a destiny!

   How trivial is life!”

The sun went out to work,

   The day went out to play,

But not again that dew was seen

   By physiognomy.

Whether by day abducted,

   Or emptied by the sun

Into the sea, in passing,

   Eternally unknown.