Pity It Is We Drowse Too Soon

We Are The Sons Of Sorrow; We Are The Poets And The Prophets And The Musicians.

And If There Come The Singers, And The Dancers And The Flute Players - Buy Of Their Gifts Also. For They Too Are Gatherers Of Fruit And Frankincense, And That Which They Bring, Though Fashioned Of Dreams, Is Raiment And Fod For Your Soul.

Would That I Were A Dry Well, And That The People Tossed Stones Into Me, For That Would Be Easier Than To Be A Spring Of Flowing Water That The Thirsty Pass By, And From Which They Avoid Drinking.

You Talk When You Cease To Be At Peace With Your Thoughts.

Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen.