Strona 71 z 83

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for

a chances. We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every

querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all

offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut;

but I find that yet there is time.

83.

Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my

tears of sorrow.

The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet,

but mine will hang upon thy breast.

Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to

withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and

when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy

grace.

84.

It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world

and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.