My life when young was like a flower-a flower that loosens a petal or two from herabundance and never feels the loss when the spring breeze comes to beg at her door.Now at the end of youth my life is like a fruit, having nothing to spare, and waiting tooffer herself completely with her full burden of sweetness. Is summer's festival only for fresh blossoms and not also for withered leaves and fadedflowers?Is the song of the sea in tune only with the rising waves?Does it not also sing with the waves that fall?Jewels are woven into the carpet where stands my king, but there are patient clodswaiting to be touched by his feet.Few are the wise and the great who sit by my Master, but he has taken the foolish in hisarms and made me his servant for ever.
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