STRAY BIRDS
116
The earth hums to me to-day in the sun, like a woman at her spinning, some ballad of the ancient time in a forgotten tongue.
117
The grass-blade is worthy of the great world where it grows.
118
Dream is a wife who must talk.
Sleep is a husband who silently suffers.
119
The night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, "I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth."
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