THE EVENING stood bewildered among street lamps, its gold tarnished by the city dust.
        A woman, gaudily decked and painted, leant over the rail of her balcony, a living fire waiting for its moths.
        Suddenly an eddy was formed in the road round a street-boy crushed under the wheels of a carriage, and the woman on the balcony fell to the floor screaming in agony, stricken with the grief of the great white-robed Mother who sits in the world's inner shrine.

THIS WORLD is the world of wild storms kept tame with the music of beauty.

YOU HAVE drunk the draught of songs
that I poured for you,
and accepted the garland of my woven dreams.
My heart straying in the wilderness
was ever touched by the pain that was your own touch.
When my days are done, my leave-taking hushed
in a final silence,
my voice will linger in the autumn light
and rain-laden clouds
with the message that we had met.