Our senses can but teach what seems,
Never what is; not truth, but dreams.
The passing pictures fade away
While yesterday becomes to-day;
Neither the pictures while they fade
, Nor the swift moments while surveyed,
Are more than counterfeits which pass
Mockingly mirrored on the glass.
For what is Caesar's body more
Than Caesar's shadow on the floor?
Can aught, then, truly claim To Be,
In such a realm of fantasy?
Mind is; hence, man is. For we know,
We think; hence, are, whate'er the show
Of false presentments; and the truth
Of being nothing knows of youth,
Age, or decay. Eternity
Is the sure meaning of To Be.
In all the kingdom of the true.
The new is old, the old is new.
The strutting Caesars all may pass
Swift as their shadows on the grass;
Fade visions, fantasies, and dreams;
Yet the Real is, whatever seems,
And man's immortal destiny
His correlation of To Be.
