LIX

When the weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the
sultry day; when the ghostly hours of the dusk throw their
shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my
friend, but for your touch.

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!"