WITH HIS morning songs he knocks at our door bringing his greetings of sunrise. With him we take our cattle to the fields and play our flute in the shade. We lose him to find him again and again in the market crowd. In the busy hour of the day we come upon him of a sudden, sitting on the wayside grass. We march when he beats his drum, We dance when he sings. We stake our joys and sorrows to play his game to the end He stands at the helm of our boat, With him we rock on the perilous waves. For him we light our lamp and wait when our day is done.
'WHAT IS THERE but the sky, O Sun, that can hold thine image?' I dream of thee, but to serve thee I can never hope,' the dewdrop wept and said, 'I am too small to take thee unto me, great lord, and my life is all tears.' 'I illumine the limitless sky, yet I can yield myself up to a tiny drop of dew,' thus the Sun said; 'I shall become but a sparkle of light and fill you, and your little life will be a laughing orb.'