ON MANY AN idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.
THE NEWS OF my love is abroad among the spring flowers. It brings to my mind the old songs. My heart of a sudden has put on green leaves of desire. My love came not but her touch is on my hair, and her voice comes across the fragrant fields in murmurs of April. Her gaze is here in the sky, but where are her eyes? Her kisses are in the air, but where are her lips?