ON THE seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather-pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

I FOUND A few old letters of mine carefully hidden in her box- a few small toys for her memory to play with.
With a timorous heart she tried to steal these trifles from time's turbulent stream, and said, 'These are mine only!'
Ah, there is no one now to claim them, who can pay their price with loving care, yet here they are still.
Surely there is love in this world to save her from utter loss, even like this love of hers that saved these letters with such fond care.

OUR MASTER is a worker and we work with him.
Boisterous is his mirth and we laugh with his laughter.
He beats his drum and we march.
He sings and we dance in its tune.
His play is of life and death. We stake our joys and sorrows and
play with him.
His call comes like the rumbling of clouds; we set out to cross
oceans and hills.