The book with dust
And wear from hands,
Such boards and paper you had touched,
And such your eyes had seen,
I read as mine.
Below me now your eyes are fixed into a stare—
And such this book demands of me
When meditating there.
Those eyes that saw what I now read,
We stare alike.
For, blind as you, these pages read our common frailty
(We are but dust),
Our certain destiny
(We are immortal souls).

This book can see!
Our eyes may set upon its watch,
But living by another breath
It has no death.