III

4 0 00

III

The priestess has passed into her tomb.

The stone has taken up her spirit!

Granite over flesh: who will deny

its advantages?

Your death?⁠—water

spilled upon the ground⁠—

though water will mount again into rose-leaves⁠—

but you?⁠—would hold life still,

even as a memory, when it is over.

Benevolence is rare.

Climb about this sarcophagus, read

what is writ for you in these figures,

hard as the granite that has held them

with so soft a hand the while

your own flesh has been fifty times

through the guts of oxen,⁠—read!

“The rose-tree will have its donor

even though he give stingily.

The gift of some endures

ten years, the gift of some twenty

and the gift of some for the time a

great house rots and is torn down.

Some give for a thousand years to men of

one face, some for a thousand

to all men and some few to all men

while granite holds an edge against

the weather.

Judge then of love!”