PLAYTHINGS
CHILD,how happy you are sitting in the dust,playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts,adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think,“What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!”
Child,I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings,and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games,I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire,and forget that I too am playing a game.
