The Gardener XLV: To the Guests


To the guests that must go bid
God’s speed and brush away all traces
Of their steps.
Take to your bosom with a smile
What is easy and simple and near.
To-day is the festival of phantoms
That know not when they die.
Let your laughter be but a meaning-
Less mirth like twinkles of light on
The ripples.
Let your life lightly dance on the
Edges of Time like dew on the tip of
A leaf.
Strike in chords from your harp
Fitful momentary rhythms.


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The Gardener XLV: To the Guests