The actual event was no longer of any interest.
		A destiny, exquisitely thought through, had folded into a life.
		So much for the fluctuating approximations
		of intelligent power, purposeful sky.
		He tested his strength in the essential instances
		when the life and the image flap their joined wings.
		Earth, to him, was a belligerent sphere
		that spewed forth, on occasion, almost perfectly rounded words.
		Yet it no longer mattered what he concocted
		the night before, what sonnet of leaves or loss.

		In the window he shifted his angle of vision
		onto a cloud that shifted its angle of flight.
		He thought: nothing sad in the death of contemporaries;
		they shift their angle of life into their thorough work.
		That he, too, was but a shifting reflection,
		not as a stone or grass, no, so much less real than they,--
		this was an island of thought in an ocean of selfsame melancholy.
		Disguised as a graceless chrysalis, it proceeded to unfold its wings.
		Look at it!--Seize it!--shut it into your cage of ecstasies!
		The happiness unforeseen, the most singular secret of all.