SAY OF HIM what you please, but I know my child's failings. I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my little child. How should you know how dear he can be when you try to weigh his merits against his faults? When I must punish him he becomes all the more a part of my being. When I cause his tears to come my heart weeps with him. I alone have a right to blame and punish, for he only may chastise who loves.
PILGRIM, THE night of the weary old year is ended. The blazing sun brings on your path the call of the Destroyer, the fiery scourge for pollutions of the past. A thin line of distance stretches along the road like a fine-drawn note from the one-stringed lute of a beggar seeking the way he has lost. Let the grey dust of the road take you up in her arms, lead you away from the clasp of clinging reluctance! Not for you is the music of the home, the light of the evening lamp, the wistful gaze of the lover keeping watch. You have ever claimed the boon of Life which is not in pleasure nor in peace or comfort, wherefore the time has come for you for rejection at every door. The Cruel One has come, the bolts and bars of your gate are broken, your wine vessel shattered; take his hand whom you do not know and dare not understand. Never fear, pilgrim! Turn not away from the terror of Truth, nor be afraid of the phantom of the unreal, take your last gift from him who takes away everything. Has the old night ended? Then let it end!
