YOU DID NOT know yourself when you dwelt alone, and there was no crying of an errand when the wind ran from the hither to the farther shore. I came and you woke, and the skies blossomed with lights. You made me open in many flowers; rocked me in the cradles of many forms; hid me in death and found me again in life. I came and your heart heaved; pain came to you and joy. You touched me and tingled into love. But in my eyes there is a film of shame and in my breast a flicker of fear; my face is veiled and I weep when I cannot see you. Yet I know the endless thirst in your heart for sight of me, the thirst that cries at my door in the repeated knockings of sunrise.
THY GIFT OF THE earliest flower came to me this morning, and came the faint tuning of thy light. I am a bee that has wallowed in the heart of thy golden dawn, My wings are radiant with its pollen. I have found my place in the feast of songs in thy April, and I am freed of my fetters like the morning of its mist in a mere play.
