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.


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.


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