THE COBWEB pretends to catch dewdrops and catches flies.

THE BURIED city, laid bare to the sun of a new age,
is ashamed that it has lost all its songs.

THE DUMB earth looks into my face and spreads her arms about me.
At night the fingers of the stars touch my dreams. They know my former name.
Their whispers remind me of the music of a long silent lullaby. They bring to my mind the smile of a face seen in the
gleam of the first daybreak.
There is love in each speck of earth and joy in the spread-of the sky.
I care not if I become dust, for the dust is touched by his feet.
I care not if I become a flower, for the flower he takes up in his hand.
He is in the sea, on the shore; he is with the ship that carries all.
Whatever I am I am blessed and blessed is this earth of dear dust.