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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