THOU HAST given me thy seat at thy window from the early hour.
I have spoken to thy silent servants of the road running on thy errands and have sung with thy choir of the sky.
I have seen the sea in calm bearing its immeasurable silence, and storm struggling to break open its own mystery of depth.
I have watched the earth in its prodigal feast of youth, and in its slow hours of brooding shadows.
Those who went to sow seeds have heard my greetings, and those who brought their harvest home or their empty baskets have passed by my songs.
Thus at last my day has ended and now in the evening I sing my last song to say that I have loved thy world.

MY NEW LOVE comes
bringing to me the eternal wealth of the old.

WHERE IS THE market for you, my song? Is it there where the learned muddle the summer breeze with their snuff; where dispute is unending if the oil depend upon the cask, or the cask upon the oil; where yellow manuscripts frown upon the fleet-footed frivolousness of life? My song cries out. Ah, no, no, no.
Where is the market for you, my song? Is it there where the man of fortune grows enormous in pride and flesh in his marble palace, with his books on the shelves, dressed in leather, painted in gold, dusted by slaves, their virgin pages dedicated to the god obscure? My song gasped and said, Ah, no, no, no.
Where is the market for you, my song? Is it there where the young student sits, with his head bent upon his books, and his mind straying in youth's dream-land; where prose is prowling on the desk, and poetry hiding in the heart? There among that dusty disorder would you care to play hide-and-seek? My song remains silent in shy hesitation.
Where is the market for you, my song? Is it there where the bride is busy in the house, where she runs to her bedroom the moment she is free, and snatches, from under her pillows, the book of romance so roughly handled by the baby, so full of the scent of her hair? My song heaves a sigh and trembles with uncertain desire.
Where is the market for you, my song? Is it there where the least of a bird's notes is never missed, where the stream's babbling finds its full wisdom where all the lute-strings of the world shower their music upon two fluttering hearts? My song bursts out and cries, Yes, yes.