in its orb the fire of the divine touch and shines for ever.



12


Like a child that frets and pushes away its toys, my heart to-day shakes
its head at every phrase I suggest, and says, "No, not this."

Yet words, in the agony of their vagueness, haunt my mind, like vagrant
clouds hovering over hills, waiting for some chance wind to relieve them of
their rain.


But leave these vain efforts, my soul, for the stillness will ripen its own
music in the dark.

My life to-day is like a cloister during some penance, where the spring is
afraid to stir or to whisper.

This is not the time, my love, for you to pass the gate; at the mere
thought of your anklet bells tinkling down the path, the garden echoes are
ashamed.

Know that to-morrow's songs are in bud to-day, and should they see you walk
by they would strain to breaking their immature hearts.