On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou
hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into
blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the
morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait.
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
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
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.
It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to
shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.
It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and
becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.
It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and
joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my
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