cause of my tears.

I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from
me.



5


For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way;
wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in
mist.

Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road,
where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water
heaves in the troubled sea.

Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it be
stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.



6


Two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that
metaphor, "Flowers are the footprints of summer."

They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be