A verse repeating a cool breeze, summer in the fields, gone... And the soul's courtyard vacant and sunlit... Or, in winter the snowy summits in the distance, the fireside where we sit singing tales handed down, and some to tell all this...

Securely I sit on the steadfast column
   Of the verses in which I'll remain,
Not fearing the endless future influx
   Of times and oblivion,
For when the mind intently studies
   In itself the world's reflections,
It becomes their plasma, and the world is what
   Creates art, not the mind. Thus
On the plaque the outer moment engraves
   Its being, and there endures.