The March wind is fretful, fretting the languid waves into
murmurs.

The garden has yielded its all, and in the weary hour of evening
the call comes from your house on the shore in the sunset.



II

My life when young was like a flower--a flower that loosens a
petal or two from her abundance and never feels the loss when the
spring breeze comes to beg at her door.

Now at the end of youth my life is like a fruit, having nothing
to spare, and waiting to offer herself completely with her full
burden of sweetness.



III

Is summer's festival only for fresh blossoms and not also for
withered leaves and faded flowers?

Is the song of the sea in tune only with the rising waves?

Does it not also sing with the waves that fall?

Jewels are woven into the carpet where stands my king, but there