এই পাতাটির মুদ্রণ সংশোধন করা হয়েছে, কিন্তু বৈধকরণ করা হয়নি।
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and therefore with no there is such a mad scramble for our chances. We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by to pau my ones to every quarrelous claimant and thy altar remains empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut but I find that yet there is time.
