("We all sorely complain," says Seneca, "of the shortness of time, and yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives are either spent in doing nothing at all or in doing nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them.") So then your hand has guarded me! Be blessed, And, if you like such reading, read, I pray, Through Moses' book, or credit them who say That old Isaiah's hand is far the best. Some day, some day the potter shall return Into the dust. O potter, will you make An earth which I would not refuse to take, Or such unpleasant earth as you would spurn? Then out of that--men swear with godly skill-- Perchance another potter may devise Another pot, a piece of merchandise Which they can love and break, if so they will. And from a resting-place you may be hurled And from a score of countries may be thrust-- Poor brother, you the freeman of the dust, Like any slave are flung about the world. End of Project Gutenberg's The Diwan of Abu'l-Ala, by Henry Baerlein