THE ARTIST is the lover of Nature, therefore he is her slave and her master.

WHO IS SHE who dwells in my heart, the woman forlorn for ever?
I wooed her and I failed to win her.
I decked her with wreaths and sang in her praise.
A smile shone in her face for a moment, then it faded.
'I have no joy in thee,' she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I bought her jewelled anklets and fanned her with a fan gem-studded; I made her a bed on a bedstead of gold.
There flickered a gleam of gladness in her eyes, then it died.
'I have no joy in these,' she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I seated her upon a car of triumph and drove her from end to end of the earth.
Conquered hearts bowed down at her feet, and shouts of applause rang in the sky.
Pride shone in her eyes for a moment, then it was dimmed in tears.
'I have no joy in conquest,' she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I asked her, 'Tell me whom do you seek?'
She only said, 'I wait for him of the unknown name.'
Days pass by and she cries, 'When will my beloved come whom I know not, and be known to me for ever?'

ONE SAD voice has its nest among the ruins of the years.
It sings to me in the night, 'I loved you.'