ON THE MOUNT OF OLIVES
" The winter, an evil guest, sitteth in my home with me. Blue are my hands from his friendship's hand- shaking.
I honour him, this evil guest, but would gladly let him alone. Gladly I run away from him. And, if one runneth well one escapeth from him !
With warm feet and warm thoughts I run thither where the wind is still, unto the sunny corner of my mount of olives.
There I laugh at my stern guest and yet am fond of him, because at home he catcheth the flies for me and stilleth many little noises.
For he doth not allow a midge to sing, or still less two midges ; even the lane he maketh lonely so that the moonshine at night is afraid there.
A hard guest is he, but I honour him, and I do not, like the tenderlings, pray unto the fire-idol with its fat womb.
Rather chatter a little with the teeth than adore idols ! Thus my kin willeth. And especially I hate all ardent, steaming, damp fire-idols.
Whom I love, I love better in winter than in sum-
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