THE GIVERS
At the house of a soul once came knockingThe first of a line of gift-bearers,Close-veiled and light-footed as silence,And speaking with voice soft and tender:“Lo, here is a season for growing,”He said, then passed into the stillness,Leaving his room to a brother.And they that came after him softlySet down in the doorway their burdens,And whispered, “Make use of them swiftly,O soul, ere one cometh to reckon.”But he, the proud soul, laughing lightly,Looked up where the sun was unrisenAnd said, “I will slumber till daybreak.”So he turned on his pillow and, dreaming,Saw laurels inwoven to crown him;And wealth for his taking; and Beauty,With love in her eyes, run to meet him;Then he woke to a step in the doorway:“All night at thy feet lay thy wishes;Now I take them,” one said, and departed.