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LXXXII
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to
count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like
flowers. Thou
knowest how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild
flower.
We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for
a chances. We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every
querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all
fierings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut;
but I find that yet there is time.
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