Small Hands, Relinquish All

Small Hands, Relinquish All

Small hands, relinquish all: Nothing the fist can hold,- Not power, not love, not gold-

But suffers from the cold, / And is about to fall.

The mind, at length bereft of thinking, and its pain, / Will soon disperse again, / And nothing will remain:

No, not a thought be left.

Exhort the closing eye, / Urge the resisting ear, / To say, "The thrush is here";

To say, "His song is clear";

To live, before it die.

Small hands, relinquish all: Nothing the fist can hold, / Not power, not love, not gold, / But suffers from the cold, / And is about to fall.

The mind, at length bereft of thinking and its pain, / Will soon disperse again, / And nothing will remain:

No, not a thing be left.

Only the ardent eye, Only the listening ear

Can say, "The thrush was here!"

Can say, "His song was clear!"

Can live, before it die.