I EVER GO seeking for this self of mine; but how can I know the fugitive, who flits in dreams in changing forms and guises? Often have I listened to its voice in the heart of my own songs, but never know I where it dwells. The hours pass, the light fades, the farewell tune is wafted in the evening breeze from the flute of a passer-by.
NO: IT IS NOT yours to open buds into blossoms. Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond your power to make it blossom. Your touch soils it, you tear its petals to pieces and strew them in the dust. But no colours appear, and no perfume. Ah! it is not for you to open the bud into a blossom. He who can open the bud does it so simply. He gives it a glance, and the life-sap stirs through its veins. At his breath the flower spreads its wings and flutters in the wind. Colours flush out like heart-longings, the perfume betrays a sweet secret. He who can open the bud does it so simply.
