In a lonely place, I encountered a sage Who sat, all still, Regarding a newspaper. He accosted me: "Sir, what is this?" Then I saw that I was greater, Aye, greater than this sage. I answered him at once, "Old, old man, it is the wisdom of the age." The sage looked upon me with admiration.

"And the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the heads of the children, even unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me." Well, then I hate thee, unrighteous picture; Wicked image, I hate thee; So, strike with thy vengeance The heads of those little men Who come blindly. It will be a brave thing.

If there is a witness to my little life, To my tiny throes and struggles, He sees a fool; And it is not fine for gods to menace fools.

There was crimson clash of war. Lands turned black and bare; Women wept; Babes ran, wondering. There came one who understood not these things. He said, "Why is this?" Whereupon a million strove to answer him. There was such intricate clamour of tongues, That still the reason was not.

"Tell brave deeds of war." Then they recounted tales, -- "There were stern stands And bitter runs for glory." Ah, I think there were braver deeds.

Charity thou art a lie, A toy of women, A pleasure of certain men. In the presence of justice, Lo, the walls of the temple Are visible Through thy form of sudden shadows.

There were many who went in huddled procession, They knew not whither; But, at any rate, success or calamity Would attend all in equality. There was one who sought a new road. He went into direful thickets, And ultimately he died thus, alone; But they said he had courage.

In heaven, Some little blades of grass Stood before God. "What did you do?" Then all save one of the little blades Began eagerly to relate The merits of their lives. This one stayed a small way behind, Ashamed. Presently, God said, "And what did you do?" The little blade answered, "Oh my Lord, Memory is bitter to me, For, if I did good deeds, I know not of them." Then God, in all His splendor, Arose from His throne. "Oh, best little blade of grass!" He said.

A god in wrath Was beating a man; He cuffed him loudly With thunderous blows That rang and rolled over the earth. All people came running. The man screamed and struggled, And bit madly at the feet of the god. The people cried, "Ah, what a wicked man!" And -- "Ah, what a redoubtable god!"

A learned man came to me once. He said, "I know the way, -- come." And I was overjoyed at this. Together we hastened. Soon, too soon, were we Where my eyes were useless, And I knew not the ways of my feet. I clung to the hand of my friend; But at last he cried, "I am lost."