O world, thou art the form, the name, the symbol of my weariness:
But, older than thy drooling god, mine ennui had its prime abode
Potential in the fathomless, foreshaping yawn of night and flame.
O world, thou shalt abide and be, for some brief travail of the sun,
The form and name of my distress, an image of the weariness
That shall survive thy kalpas done, the doom that is eternity.