THEN a hermit... who visited the city once
a year... Speak to us of Pleasure And he answered... saying: Pleasure is a freedom song... but it is not freedom. It is the blossoming of your desires... but it is not their fruit. It is a depth calling unto a height... but it is not the deep nor the high. It is the caged taking wing... but it is not space encompassed. Ay... in very truth... pleasure is a freedom song. Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it
were all... I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek. For they shall find pleasure... but not her alone: Seven are her sisters... and the least of them Have you not heard of the man who was
digging in the earth And some of your elders remember
pleasures with regret But regret is the beclouding of the mind and not its chastisement. They should remember their pleasures with
gratitude... Yet if it comforts them to regret... let them be comforted. And there are among you those who are
neither young And in their fear of seeking and remembering
they shun all pleasures... But even in their foregoing is their pleasure. And thus they too find a treasure though
they dig But tell me... who is he that can offend the spirit..? Shall the nightingale offend the stillness of the night... or the firefly the stars..? And shall your flame or your smoke burden the wind..? Think you the spirit is a still pool which you can trouble with a staff..? Oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure
you do but store And your body is the harp of your
soul... And now you ask in your
heart... Go to your fields and your
gardens... For to the bee a flower is a fountain of
life... |
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