I ran upon life unknowing, without or science or art,
I found the first pretty maiden but she was a harlot at heart;
I wandered about the woodland after the melting of snow,
‘Here is the first pretty snowdrop’ — and it was the dung of a crow!
“It’s true that even though I’m a world unto myself, I’ve just a speck of dust in the avalanche of events. But nothing will ever force me to think like a speck of dust!”