Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/20

 So too, in this everlasting, deep night of eternity Shines a ray, a passing instant, in the vast immensity; When extinguished, like a shadow, back to darkness will be hurled This vain dream of a nonbeing, all this fleeting phantom world.

But the thinker in the present doth not stop, his mind is led In a twinkling over aeons, endless centuries ahead: This resplendent sun, so beauteous, now he sees it brown-red, dull, Like a wound in dark clouds, dreary, or in storms a drifting hull; All the planets, which no longer curbs with mighty reins the sun, Frozen in their hearts, as maddened, wildly through the spaces run. Like a temple that is shattered, breaks in pieces all this sphere, Like the leaves in autumn falling, all the stars now disappear, And all time is dead and burried, it becomes eternity, Nothing happens now and empty is the vast immensity, In the deep night of nonbeing everything again doth creep, Quiet, with itself contented, reigns calm peace, eternal sleep.

From the lowest to the highest, from the beggar to the king, With their painful life’s enigma all are vainly labouring. Who is the most miserable? Who in this poor world can say? All are like, and over others rises only he who may, While so many, humble hearted, lying in the shadow, thrown From the way, or tossed or driven, like the foam will die unknown. What doth blind fate care whatever for their wishes, thoughts or strife? Like the stormy wind it passes over this poor human life.

If he’s praised by all his fellows and acknowledged by his age, What will he win from these praises for himself the wise old sage? Immortality! Yea, truly all that he could do and be Twined around one great idea, like the ivy to the tree. „Though I die—he says—like others, centuries will bear my fame Everywhere and through all ages, and from mouth to mouth my name Borne along with all my writings, in this world’s uproar and welter, In uncounted minds alighting, they will find a quiet shelter!“ Poor old man, dost thou remember all that thou hast seen and heard, All that thou thyself hast spoken, every name and every word? Here and there perhaps an image, or the traces of a thought, But a word, a slip of paper, all just little more than nought.