Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
　　
　　Muffled and dumb, like barefoot dervishes ,
　　
　　And marching single in an endless file,
　　
　　Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
　　
　　To each they offer gifts, after his will,--
　　
　　Bread, kingdoms, stars, or sky that holds them all.
　　
　　I, in my pleach　garden, watched the pomp,
　　
　　Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
　　
　　Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
　　
　　Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
　　
　　Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.