We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist. So, for a time, if such a passion come to fruition, the man will get what he wants. He will get the moral support, the encouragement, the relief from the sense of loneliness, the assurance of his own worth. But these things pass away; inevitably they pass away as the shadows pass across sundials. It is sad, but it is so. The pages of the book will become familiar; the beautiful corner of the road will have been turned too many times. Well, this is the saddest story.
And the time sundials tell May be minutes and hours. But it may just as well Be seconds and sparkles, or seasons and flowers. No, I don't think of time as just minutes and hours. Time can be heartbeats, or bird songs, or miles, Or waves on a beach, or ants in their files (They do move like seconds-just watch their feet go: Tick-tick-tick, like a clock). You'll learn as you grow That whatever there is in a garden, the sun Counts up on its dial. By the time it is done Our sundial-or someone's- will certainly add All the good things there are. Yes, and all of the bad. And if anyone's here for the finish, the sun Will have told him-by sundial-how well we have done. How well we have done, or how badly. Alas, That is a long thought. Let me hope we all pass.