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.
SHE WHO EVER had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.
