THE MORNING-light aches

with the pain of parting.

Poet, take up thy flute!

Let be, if thou must depart, and go,

leaving thy song to the flowers

in this dew-dripping autumn.

Such a morning will come again

at the gold-tinted border of the East

with kunda flowers in her locks.

In the shady garden path, plaintive with dove's cooing,

tender with the caressing enchantment of the green,

will rise again the vision of this light,

her steps tinkling with the anklet of thine own songs.

Let be, if thou must depart.