SUDDENLY THE window of my heart flew open this morning, the window that looks out on your heart. I wondered to see that the name by which you know me is written in April leaves and flowers, and I sat silent. The curtain was blown away for a moment between my songs and yours. I found that your morning light was full of my own mute songs unsung; I thought that I would learn them at your feet-and I sat silent.
I SEEK AND SEEK on my harp strings the notes that can blend with thine. Simple is the awakening of the morning and the flow of water, simple are the dewdrops on leaves, colours in clouds, the moonlight on sand-banks of the river and showers of rain in the midnight. I seek notes for my songs simple and full as these, fresh and flowing with life, old as the world and known to all. But my strings are newly strung and they bristle with sharp newness as with spears. Thus my songs never have the spirit of the winds, they never can mingle with the lights of the sky. My effort is an effort and my restless strains try hard to drown thy music.
