PLUCK THIS little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust. It may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by. Though its colour he not deep and its smell he faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time.
THE SHORE whispers to the sea: 'Write to me what thy waves struggle to say.' The sea writes in foam again and again and wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair.