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.

PUT OUT THE lamps, my heart, the lamps of your lonely night.
The call comes to you to open your doors, for the morning light is abroad.
Leave your lute in the corner, my heart, the lute of your lonely life.
The call comes to you to come out in silence, for the morning sings your own songs.

BY ALL MEANS they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day
passes by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love.