Why, if this interval of being can be spent serenely in the form of a laurel, slightly darker than all other green, with tiny waves on the edges of every leaf (like the smile of a breeze) --: why then have to be human - and, escaping from fate, keep longing for fate? ....
Oh not because happiness exists,that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss,Not out of curiosity, not as practice for the heart, which would exist in the laurel too....
But because truly being here is so much; because everything here apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which is in some strange way keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,just once. And never again. But to have been this once, completely, even if only once:to have been at one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.
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