THE EVENING stood bewildered among street lamps, its gold tarnished by the city dust.
        A woman, gaudily decked and painted, leant over the rail of her balcony, a living fire waiting for its moths.
        Suddenly an eddy was formed in the road round a street-boy crushed under the wheels of a carriage, and the woman on the balcony fell to the floor screaming in agony, stricken with the grief of the great white-robed Mother who sits in the world's inner shrine.

GOD COMES to me in the dusk of my evening with the flowers from my past kept fresh in his basket.

I HAVE FELT your muffled steps in my blood, Evermoving Past,
have seen your hushed countenance
in the heart of the garrulous day.
You have come to write the unfinished stories of our fathers in
unseen script on the pages of our destiny;
You lead back to life the unremembered designs
for the shaping of new images.
Is not the restless Present itself a crowd of your own visions
Flung up like a constellation from the abyss of dumb night?