Like a spring flower from
The ashes of mid-winter night's rose
Arise kindly sir-madame
From the slumber of your once great repose
Collect thine adornments
From where they lay scattered about
Find the strength as one wandering
On again finding one's route
For the fell of your night-sleep
Has laden heavy your eyes
Pray that one shall again
Find the strength to arise
For the world is like unto a finely dyed cloth,
So finely wrapped its entrapment -
And so hard to take off
Aye but again the moth shall consume,
And what's been laid up be made waste
For petty indeed are those material things that you chase
If given warm food,
Does not a beggar then eat?
Then would not he be a fool who looks over,
What has all but been laid at his feet?
How can be great a life so pitifully lost,
Fearing ones own shadow and grasping at straws
Find in your heart, that compassionate breadth
Which it once well possessed
And which is - still alive in its depths
For a soul is not like those fanciful things,
Nay it endures caring not - what the winter shall bring
If only one grasp it and lifteth it up,
A brilliance so bright!
Like the watchman awaking
From his slumber at night
Aye what great light!
True sight! True sight!
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