THE FLUTE-SOUND of a holiday music floats in the air. It is not the time for me to sit and brood alone. The shiuli branches shiver with the thrill of an impending flower-time, the touch of the dew is over the woodland. On the fairy web in the forest path the light and shadow feel each other. The tall grass sends waves of laughter to the sky in its flowers, and I gaze upon the horizon, seeking for my song.
WOMAN, YOUR basket is heavy, your limbs are tired. For what distance have you set out, with what hunger of profit? The way is long and the dust is hot in the sun. See, the lake is deep and full, its water dark like a crow's eye. The banks are sloping and tender with grass. Dip your tired feet into the water. The noon-tide wind will pass its fingers through your hair; the pigeons will croon their sleep songs, the leaves will murmur the secrets that nestle in the shadows. What matters it if the hours pass and the sun sets; if the way through the desolate land be lost in the waning light. Yonder is my house, by the hedge of flowering henna; I will guide you. I will make a bed for you, and light a lamp. In the morning when the birds are roused by the stir of milking the cows, I will waken you.
