On the Olive-Mount
Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly handshaking.
I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I run away from him; and when one runneth well , then one escapeth him!
With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm—to the sunny corner of mine olive-mount.
There do I laugh at my stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he cleareth my house of flies, and quieteth many little noises.
For he suffereth it not if a gnat wanteth to buzz, or even two of them; also the lanes maketh he lonesome, so that the moonlight is afraid there at night.
A hard guest is he—but I honour him, and do not worship, like the tenderlings, the potbellied fire-idol.