O thinker! Thou whose heart hath not withstood,
For the first time, Spring's beauty in the wood,
And who thyself wilt therefore not forgive,
Thy days have passed in pondering o'er the great
Enigma man proposes to his fate,
And books from life have made thee fugitive.
What boots? Leave to the gods their secret yet,
And, while thou livest, taste without regret
The sweetness of this simple word: To live.