There is an anguish in my heart for the burden of its riches not
given to you.
Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it
and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch
of my loneliness.
LX
The odour cries in the bud, "Ah me, the day departs, the happy
day of spring, and I am a prisoner in petals!"
Do not lose heart, timid thing! Your bonds will burst, the bud
will open into flower, and when you die in the fulness of life,
even then the spring will live on.
The odour pants and flutters within the bud, crying, "Ah me, the
hours pass by, yet I do not know where I go, or what it is I
seek!"
Do not lose heart, timid thing! The spring breeze has overheard
your desire, the day will not end before you have fulfilled your
being.
Dark is the future to her, and the odour cries in despair, "Ah
me, through whose fault is my life so unmeaning?
"Who can tell me, why I am at all?" Do not lose heart, timid
thing! The perfect dawn is near when you will mingle your life
with all life and know at last your purpose.
LXI
She is still a child, my lord.
She runs about your palace and plays, and tries to make of you a
plaything as well.
She heeds not when her hair tumbles down and her careless garment
drags in the dust.
She falls asleep when you speak to her and answers not--and the
flower you give her in the morning slips to the dust from her
hands.
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