Any worldly creature
Is like a book, a painting,
To serve as a mirror,
Faithful representation
Of our life, of our d**h,
Of our state, of our lot.
Our condition is painted by the rose,
Of our state, a great gloss and
A lesson from our existence:
In full bloom in the early morning,
Flourishing flower falling out of blossom
In the oldness of the night.