The past has flown away,
The coming month and year do not exist;
Ours only is the present’s tiny point.
Time is but a fancied dot ever moving on
Which you have called a flowing river-stream.
I am alone in a wide desert,
Listening to the echo of strange noises.
The coming month and year do not exist;
Ours only is the present’s tiny point.
Time is but a fancied dot ever moving on
Which you have called a flowing river-stream.
I am alone in a wide desert,
Listening to the echo of strange noises.