To me upset appears the Cosmos old,
But I do not know what your eyes behold.
In breasts the morn of Last Day comes to view.
Old thoughts of youth have been replaced by new.
Your hymns at morn can't make amends for Life,
O Elder of the shrine, without much strife.
The Shrines no strength to Self e'er can impart.
Because no sparks from wet flame can depart.