LET ALL THE strains of joy mingle in my last song-the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word.
THE BOATMAN is out crossing the wild sea at night. The mast is aching because of its full sails filled with the violent wind. Stung with the night's fang the sky falls upon the sea, poisoned with black fear. The waves dash their heads against the dark unseen, and the Boatman is out crossing the wild sea. The Boatman is out, I know not for what tryst, startling the night with the sudden white of his sails. I know not at what shore, at last, he lands to reach the silent courtyard where the lamp is burning and to find her who sits in the dust and waits. What is the quest that makes his boat care not for storm nor darkness? Is it heavy with gems and pearls? Ah, no, the Boatman brings with him no treasure, but only a white rose in his hand and a song on his lips. It is for her who watches alone at night with her lamp burning. She dwells in the wayside hut. Her loose hair flies in the wind and hides her eyes. The storm shrieks through her broken doors, the light flickers in her earthen lamp flinging shadows on the walls. Through the howl of the winds she hears him call her name, she whose name is unknown. It is long since the Boatman sailed. It will be long before the day breaks and he knocks at the door. The drums will not be beaten and none will know. Only light shall fill the house, blessed shall be the dust, and the heart glad. All doubts shall vanish in silence when the Boatman comes to the shore.
