He Argues with His Life

My life, what strange mad garments hast thou on, 
Now that I see thee truly and am wise! 
Thou wild, lost Proteus, strangling and undone! 
What shapes are these, what metamorphoses 
Of a god’s soul in pain? I hear thy cries 
And see thee writhe and take fantastic forms, 
And strike in blindness at the destinies 
And at thyself, and at thy brother worms. 
Ah, foolish worm, thou canst not change thy lot, 
And all like thee must perish ’neath the sun. 
Why struggle with thy fellows? Nay, be kind, 
Kinder than these. Behold, the flower-pot 
Of fate is emptied out, and one by one 
The fisher takes you, and his books are blind.