Hardly we find the path of love, to sink the Self, forget the “I,”
When sad suspicion grips the heart, when Man, the Man begins to die:
[…]
How Thought is imp' otent to divine the secret which the gods defend,
The Why of birth and life and death, that Isis-veil no hand may rend.
Eternal Morrows make our Day; our Is is aye to be till when
Night closes in; 'tis all a dream, and yet we die, – and then and THEN?
And still the Weaver plies his loom, whose warp and woof is wretched Man
Weaving th' unpattern'd dark design, so dark we doubt it owns a plan.
[…]
Cease, Man, to mourn, to weep, to wail; enjoy thy shining hour of sun;
We dance along Death's icy brink, but is the dance less full of fun?
–SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON,
THE KASÎDAH OF HÂJÎ ABDÛ EL YEZDÎ
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