Sung on A By-Way

What of all the will to do?

It has vanished long ago,

For a dream-shaft pierced it through

From the Unknown Archer's bow.

What of all the soul to think?

Some one offered it a cup

Filled with a diviner drink,

And the flame has burned it up.

What of all the hope to climb?

Only in the self we grope

To the misty end of time

Truth has put an end to hope.

What of all the heart to love?

Sadder than for will or soul,

No light lured it on above;

Love has found itself the whole.