THE MORNING-light aches
with the pain of parting.
Poet, take up thy flute!
Let be, if thou must depart, and go,
leaving thy song to the flowers
in this dew-dripping autumn.
Such a morning will come again
at the gold-tinted border of the East
with kunda flowers in her locks.
In the shady garden path, plaintive with dove's cooing,
tender with the caressing enchantment of the green,
will rise again the vision of this light,
her steps tinkling with the anklet of thine own songs.
Let be, if thou must depart.

STAND BEFORE my eyes, and let thy glance touch my songs into a flame.
Stand among thy stars and let me find kindled in their lights my own fire of worship.
The earth is waiting at the world's wayside;
Stand upon the green mantle she has flung upon thy path; and let
me feel in her grass and meadow flowers the spread of my own salutation.
Stand in my lonely evening where my heart watches alone; fill her
cup of solitude, and let me feel in me the infinity of thy love.

I THOUGHT I would write love's words in their own colour; but that lies deep in the heart, and tears are pale.
        Would you know them, friend, if the words were colourless?
        I thought I would sing love's words to their own tune, but that sounds only in my heart, and my eyes are silent.
        Would you know them, friend, if there were no tune?