What cup is there more bitter than Time? All life's beauty, lain in the dust; all tomorrow's hopes, forgotten. To our lips we raise a vinegar'd tang, where but yesterday, there was wine. Trust not the deceit of color or song. To the eyes, a wondrous thing; to the ears, a paean of heaven. Already the Puppeteer readies his box, where he hides them all before long. Yet, in the lover's heart lies a secret. A knowledge unknown to tongues; a truth hidden even from minds. That in the heart of pain lies a door, one step beyond grief and regret: That if we had not loved, we should not hurt; that if we'd been not warm, we would not shiver. All bitterness we taste is in memory of sweet; all longing we feel, a proof of union. For this terrible pain we call our life, is knowledge that the soul knows of better. It is written: "Verily, we are from God, and to Him shall we return."