Page 47 - 1920 February - To Dragma

130 TO DRAGMA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI

The poor dig in the garden. Their hands are grimy. We gather the
flowers. Are there thorns?

Our flowers shall fade. We have nothing. But the poor have made a
garden.

Men come and go like the waves of the sea. But the ocean of life is
immortal.

The caterpillar need not hurry. His destiny is certain. Thou, too, shalt
fly, my soul.

An old lady sits in the glow of the sunset. Bright and calm, an evening
star, she shall guide our ships.

I see a star. I t says to me, "Look beyond me!"

When my candle went out I found my way by the light beneath a door. I t
was the sympathy of a friend.

We cannot touch the moonlight that fills the cup of the world. Yet who
shall say it is nothing?

A clock is ticking in the night. "Coming! Coming!" it says. Time
does not go, my heart; it comes.

A small temple bell swings in the light breeze, but makes no sound. I f
the bell be perfect it has not failed. A stronger wind shall ring it.

Lest it destroy my garment, I killed a fluttering moth with my hand. Do
I love my garment more than Life? I killed a fluttering moth, a quivering
bit of gold. Where went the life I took? In order to save my garment, I
killed a moth. But his garment was more beautiful than mine. Did I save?

The negro gardener passed through the wicket gate in the dark. I thought
that he and I met an angel. "How black you are!" the angel said to me.
He saw our souls.

All day I had pursued Freedom, in vain. Freedom sat beside me at eve-
ning in my garden. "She whom you vainly followed was Freedom-to-Take,"
she said. " I , who live with you, am your Freedom-to-Give."

Genius, put to the plough, lost the use of his wings. But the seed sown
in those furrows bore flowers of gold.

Two were walking together. One looked upon the ground. He stooped
and found a diamond. But the other did not need it. He was looking at
the stars.

The fireflies beautify the night. Who knows one from another? Seek
not your own glory. I f a star fell out of the night, we should not mark its
loss. Yet each star brightens the darkness.

Music is as a flower in the night. All sense its perfume, but only the
seeker finds the face of its beauty.

Little wings bear me upward. They are my thoughts of a friend long dead.

I climbed up to the mountain-top looking for angels. They were all in the
valley, helping the weak to climb.