The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect.
The toys that you make for your children are fragile.
You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you
for that?
Your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes.
Your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart.
From your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality,
that is why your eyes are ever wakeful.
For ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven is
not built, but only its sad suggestion.
Over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears.
I will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into your
love.
I will worship you with labour.
I have seen your tender face and I love your mournful dust,
Mother Earth.
74
In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on
the same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight.
Thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world with
the music of the clouds and forests.
But, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simple
grandeur of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of the
musing moon.
The blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it.
And when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles into
dust.
75
At midnight the would-be ascetic announced:
"This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, who
has held me so long in delusion here?"
God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped.
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