The Gardener 72

With days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors orwindows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones.I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in raptcontemplation at the image I had set upon the altar.It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazybewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces, womenwith limbs like serpents.No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song ofbirds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that ofincantations which I chanted.My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my sensesswooned in ecstasy.I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck thetemple, and a pain stung me through the heart.

The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, likechained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would fainhide themselves.I looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alivewith the living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned hadspread its wings and vanished.