Mother Solitude, before which all great things tremble
to acknowledge you; greater things still are you capable
of giving birth to—
Whatever the dream, whatever the divine necessity,
you are great enough to prepare the hour of its birth,
if we are willing to suffer the untold hours before,
the quiet gestation to which our soul must submit.
However lowly, we, too, have a hand in destiny.
What is greatest but the birth of Divinity?
How great then must be the mother of Divinity—
our Solitude, our long, long Solitude.
I counted the hours; I counted the years; my station
was handmaiden, with long, long, bittersweet patience;
and in how many moments of weakness I almost failed—
So great was the labor of Solitude! So great!
Little did I know how great Mother Solitude had to be.
from
The Birth of Psyche