Why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets in mere idle sport?
Fill your pitcher.  It is time for you to come home.
Why do you stir the water with your hands and fitfully glance at the road for some one in mere idle sport?
Fill your pitcher and come home.
The morning hours pass by—the dark water flows on.
The waves are laughing and whispering to each other in mere idle sport.
The wandering clouds have gathered at the edge of the sky on yonder rise of the land.
They linger and look at your face and smile in mere idle sport.
Fill your pitcher and come home.

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The gardener
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