Het is weekend. Ook mooi.

So each who gains the strained-for prize
may hold it in his hand
and watch it shrinking to the size
of a grain of sand.

But who won not shall keep the dream
of what he might have won,
safe-guarded by the seraphim
and centered in the sun.

Bright apples of Hesperides
no mortal hand shall pull,
liefer than hanks of golden fleece
that dim to common wool.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.