When spring's time has come, no eyecan avoid its vitality, the tulip's boldperpendicular climb, more subtle unfurling of the rose, breathless profusion ofcolour and fragrance, the singingflight of birds and insects, trees that branch and leaf, swaying wmds tkat carry af ar the perfumed air, a dance of;ecstasy whose rhythm animates ali living things.

In such a setting death appears with a smile ofhope:

f or springtime is a light veil over theface ofParadise,

and who ever an mise this veil canfind the Eternal One,

transported zuithin from this- to other-worldliness.

Let others complain how remote and difficult eternity is,

how impossible to attain: how can mey be concerned

who have journeyed in themselves and there attained'"

Let others complain how the world has shrunk and choked

in our confining age. Those who believe wulfind everywhere

spacious vuithout space: even as they gaze at birds and insects

drunk on spring air, themselves are dmnk on other perfumes

andstroll at ease in Paradise. What is death to them except

an interment ofseeds revived in that other spring, as here

revive exquisite, sweet-blossoming, fruit-promised trees?

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