| LXXV
Thy gifts to us
mortals fulfill all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished.
The river has its
everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its
incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet.
The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last
service is to fire itself to thee.
Thy worship does not impoverish the world. From the words of the
poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning
points to thee.
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