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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.

by Rabindranath Tagore
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