If the book of the universe be written
in the language of Mathematics,
a bad scholar swindled at market
and mocked at home, such as I am,
hopes yet for another book, written
in a script less fit for accountants
and truer to common, sustaining dreams.

All that's valuable has ever been
a windfall accepted not meant to last,
all that I crave so unbearably
at once so close while so beyond vast,
all that rises like countless blazing Suns
falls as soon, sweet rain on fields passed;
right where the seeds of all dreams were broadcast.