This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.

World and dissolution, day and night,
Both are eternally, although to sight
They seem to alternate. Life and death
Are the twin phases of a single breath
Of That-which-is, That which underlies
The self that lives and then reluctant dies,
Not knowing whence or whither. To out-turned gaze
World with its intricate inweaving maze
Of ever-varied forms forever is.
Turn inward and its woven harmonies
Are gone with him that saw them. Nought remains
That eye can see or thought, though it contains
All things, can comprehend. Only the Void
Unknowable whereon the worlds float past
Like foam-flakes on the Ocean. How shall mind
Pierce to what was before it, or how find
The womb that gave it birth? No aggregate
Of thoughts and feelings, no conglomerate
Of forms, endures; and yet, though figments pass,
“Life like a dome of many-coloured glass
Stains the white radiance of eternity,”*
And all things are and are not endlessly.

* Shelly, AdonaisĀ