Homes break, playhouses break, let dust fill them, dust on dust; mute pain gathers on the heart— dust! yet the eyes forget.
I know—no more looking back, the accounts are settled and done; I know—memory's hoard is vain, then why this secret breath?
If the playground is false, if the body is only shadow— if time steals everything away, then why this final enchantment?
No, friend, there is no end to the mind's broken illusions; whatever the game was, it remains— eternal desire supreme.
That desire pulls the past, holds it against infinity's breast; joy and sorrow are one, I say— what gain or loss, settled together.
What vast mansion it built! What eternal game it played; for that playhouse, such endless love— the time for playing never ends.