If Time and Space, as Sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity. The flowers I gave thee when the dew Was trembling on the vine, Were withered ere the wild bee flew To suck the eglantine. So let us haste to pluck anew Nor mourn to see them pine, And though our days of love be few Yet let them be devine.
è soltanto una riscrittura della realtà.