Psalms of the Brethren CLXXIV: Matanga’s Son

Too cold! too hot! too late! such is the cry.
And so, past men who shake off work [that waits
Their hand], the fateful moments fly.

But he who reckons cold and heat as less
Than straws, doing his duties as a man,
He no defaulter proves to happiness.

Dabba-and kusa-grass and pricking stems,
And all that hurts in brush and underwood.
Forth from my breast I’ll push and thrust away,
And go where I the growth may cultivate
Of heart’s detachment, lone and separate.