You and I and all we do Know not, till our hearts are through The press of life, what things we be Root or leaves or shade of a tree. You and I and all we seem Maybe but as a drift of dream In the eyes of One who gave Self to love and love to save,- Yea, all the deeds that men have wrought Mere flower of dream, the flame of thought, Break of waves on a drear shore, Scent of the wild rose on the moor. Yet we have seen, and hold it sure, That out of shame come forth the pure; Dark earth folds in the heart's red bloom; In vain, we build the soul a tomb. -a poem by R.J. Lindley-
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Istana Spica, tulisan ke 1592
Aku tahu bahwa ada sesuatu yang tidak beres pada Octavius. Entah mengapa kali ini hatiku sangat tidak tenang, padahal sekadar membiarkan Ravi pergi ke sana untuk membicarakan beb
