THE NIGHT-SONG 147
Oh, unblessedness of all givers ! Oh, obscuration of my sun ! Oh, longing for longing ! Oh, famished voracity in the midst of satisfaction !
They take things from me : but do I touch their soul? There is a gulf between giving and taking; and the smallest gulf is the most difficult to bridge over.
A hunger waxeth out of my beauty: I would cause pain unto those unto whom I bring light ; I would fain bereave those I gave my gifts to. Thus am I hungry for wickedness.
Taking back my hand when another hand stretch- eth out for it; hesitating like the waterfall that hesi- tateth when raging down thus am I hungry for wickedness.
Such revenge is invented by mine abundance; such insidiousness springeth from my loneliness.
My happiness of giving died from giving; my virtue became weary of itself from its abundance !
He who always giveth is in danger to lose his sense of shame ; he who always distributeth getteth hard swellings on his hand and heart from distributing.
Mine eye no longer floweth over from the shame of the begging ones ; my hand hath become too hard to feel the trembling of full hands.
Whither went the tear of mine eye and the down of my heart ? Oh, solitude of all givers ! Oh, silence of all lighters !
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