LXXX
You did not know yourself when you dwelt alone, and there was no
crying of an errand when the wind ran from the hither to the
farther shore.
I came and you woke, and the skies blossomed with lights.
You made me open in many flowers; rocked me in the cradles of
many forms; hid me in death and found me again in life.
I came and your heart heaved; pain came to you and joy.
You touched me and tingled into love.
But in my eyes there is a film of shame and in my breast a
flicker of fear; my face is veiled and I weep when I cannot see
you.
Yet I know the endless thirst in your heart for sight of me, the
thirst that cries at my door in the repeated knockings of
sunrise.
LXXXI
You, in your timeless watch, listen to my approaching steps while
your gladness gathers in the morning twilight and breaks in the
burst of light.
The nearer I draw to you the deeper grows the fervour in the
dance of the sea.
Your world is a branching spray of light filling your hands, but
your heaven is in my secret heart; it slowly opens its buds in
shy love.
LXXXII
I will utter your name, sitting alone among the shadows of my
silent thoughts.
I will utter it without words, I will utter it without purpose.
For I am like a child that calls its mother an hundred times,
glad that it can say "Mother.
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