IF IT IS NOT my portion to meet thee in this my life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight-let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing-let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and m my wakeful hours. When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me-let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house-let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.
I THOUGHT I had something to say to her when our eyes met in the road. But she passed away, and it rocks day and night like an idle boat on every wave of the hours the thing that I had to say to her. It seems to sail in the autumn clouds in an endless quest and to bloom into evening flowers seeking its lost words in the sunset. It twinkles like fireflies in my heart to find its own meaning in the dusk of despair the thing that I had to say to her.
