ON THE MOUNT OF OLIVES 2$ I
Thou white head above me with thy round eyes ! Oh, thou heavenly likeness of my soul and its wantonness !
And must I not hide myself like one who hath swallowed gold, in order that my soul may not be cut open ?
Must I not walk on stilts in order that my long legs may escape the notice of all those envious and malicious folk around me ?
Those souls smoky, fireside-warmed, used up, covered with green, sulky how could their envy endure my happiness!
r But as things are, I show them only the ice and the winter on my summits and not that my mount tieth around itself all the girdles of the sun !
They hear the whistle of my wintry storms only and not that I also sail over warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south winds.
They have pity on my accidents and chances. But my word is : ' Let chance come unto me ! Innocent it is, as a little child ! '
How could they endure my happiness if I did not put round it accidents and winter sorrows and caps of polar-bear skin and covers of snowy skies !
If I had not pity for their pity, for the pity of these envious and malicious folk !
And if I did not sigh in their presence myself and chatter with cold and allow myself to be patiently wrapped in their pity !
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