Slow Movement

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 finally.    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.