The Gardener XLV: To the Guests

To the guests that must go bid
God's speed and brush away all traces
of their steps.
    Take to your bosom with a smile
what is easy and simple and near.
    To-day is the festival of phantoms
that know not when they die.
    Let your laughter be but a meaning-
less mirth like twinkles of light on
the ripples.
    Let your life lightly dance on the
edges of Time like dew on the tip of
a leaf.
    Strike in chords from your harp
fitful momentary rhythms.