Imre Madách |
All things that live, endure for the same span;
The century-old tree, and the one-day beetle,
Grow conscious, joy and love, and pass away
When they have reached their own appointed aims.
Time does not move. `Tis only we who change.
A hundred years are but one brief day.
You triumphed over me since it’s my fate
Incessantly to fail in all my struggles
But then, revitalized, to rise again.
How restricted
Are your horizons, woman. And yet this
Precisely is what charms ambitious men.