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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
Let your life lightly dance on the
edges of Time like dew on the tip of
Strike in chords from your harp
fitful momentary rhythms.
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