The honey from the flowers of the senses,
Ever present within, ruler of time,
Goes beyond fear.
For this Self is Supreme
There was an old woman
Liv'd under a hill,
And if she isn't gone
She lives there still.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Somehow not only for Christmas
But all the long year through,
The joy that you give to others
Is the joy that comes back to you.
He who does not attempt to make peace
When small discords arise,
Is like the bee's hive which leaks drops of honey
Soon, the whole hive collapses.