FOR WHAT GREAT reward of my merit,
O Beautiful,
had I, a meadow-flower, once taken my place
in the chain on thy neck?
The newly-wakened eyes of the earth
were glad on that day,
and the lute, at the touch of the Ever-new,
broke out in melodies of dawn.
If that flower fades and drops to the earth
at the dim hour of the day,
when the bird's songs are languid,
let the evening wind sweep it away across the dark,
following thy departing steps,
never leaving it to be trodden to the dust
by the careless moments.

OUR MASTER is a worker and we work with him.
Boisterous is his mirth and we laugh with his laughter.
He beats his drum and we march.
He sings and we dance in its tune.
His play is of life and death. We stake our joys and sorrows and
play with him.
His call comes like the rumbling of clouds; we set out to cross
oceans and hills.