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Poem	Threefold is the march of time While the future slow advances, Like a dart the present glances, Silent stands the past sublime. No impatience e'er can speed him On his course if he delay; No alarm, no doubts impede him If he keep his onward way; No regrets, no magic numbers Wake the tranced one from his slumbers. Wouldst thou wisely and with pleasure, Pass the days of life's short measure, From the slow one counsel take, But a tool of him ne'er make; Ne'er as friend the swift one know, Nor the constant one as foe! II. Threefold is the form of space: Length, with ever restless motion, Seeks eternity's wide ocean; Breadth with boundless sway extends; Depth to unknown realms descends. All as types to thee are given; Thou must onward strive for heaven, Never still or weary be Would'st thou perfect glory see; Far must thy researches go. Wouldst thou learn the world to know; Thou must tempt the dark abyss Wouldst thou prove what Being is. Naught but firmness gains the prize,-- Naught but fulness makes us wise,-- Buried deep, truth ever lies!
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