All those treasures that lie in the little bolted box whose tiny space is
Mightier than the room of the stars, being secret and filled with dreams:
All those treasures—I hold them in my hand—are straining continually
Against the sides and the lid and the two ends of the little box in which
I guard them;
Crying that there is no sun come among them this great while and that
they weary of shining;
Calling me to fold back the lid of the little box and to give them sleep
But the night I am hiding from them, dear friend, is far more desperate
than their night!
And so I take pity on them and pretend to have lost the key to the little
house of my treasures,
For they would die of weariness were I to open it, and not be merely
faint and sleepy
As they are now.
= Leon Branton