You disclose me a lot of your secret
But don't make the deepest clean breast,
Like a gravedigger burying the dead,
With false tears in looking much sad

I think these are my days
But don't rather think so,
Like the old one pretending to sigh so,
When to look back one's young days

Sufferings are mine but are got up by me
Anxiety and rest usually join each hands
Despair and hope get confuse my mind
These're our problems which absorb me

We don't take the rough with the smooth
As if ornate recollections miss the truth
Tangles exclude the goodness
Life becomes deep darkness

Is genius nimbler than insanity to come?
Does the death come more quickly than life?
Love and hate, like clockwork, tic away time.
You and I, like mice, run down maze of life.

LIfe is clumsy clumsy tumbling corm
It may rot in somewhere
It may bloom some day somewhere
World is unreasonable progressive form

Therefore
High-minded would need degeneration
Therefore
Degeneration would need high-minded