AT NOON
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��Like such a weary ship in the calmest bay, I now rest nigh unto the land, faithful, trusting, waiting, moored unto it with the gentlest threads.
O happiness ! O happiness ! Wilt thou sing, O my soul ? Thou liest in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour, when no herdsman playeth on his flute.
Keep off! Hot noon sleepeth on the fields. Sing not ! Hush ! The world is perfect.
Sing not, thou grass-bird, O my soul ! Whisper not even ! Behold ! Hush ! the old noon sleepeth, it moveth its mouth. Doth it not this moment drink a drop of happiness
An old brown drop of golden happiness, of golden wine ? Something glideth across it, its happiness laugheth. Thus laugheth a God. Hush !
'For happiness how little is required for happi- ness ! ' Thus I said once and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy. I have now learnt that. Wise fools speak better.
Just what is least, gentlest, lightest, the rustling of a lizard, a breath, a moment, a twinkling of the eye little maketh the quality of the best happiness. Hush!
What hath befallen me ? Hearken ! Did time fly away? Do I not fall? Did I not fall hearken !- into the well of eternity ?
What befalleth me ? Hush ! It stingeth me alas !
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