WHERE IS heaven? you ask me, my child,- the sages tell us it is beyond the limits of birth and death, unswayed by the rhythm of day and night; it is not of this earth.
But your poet knows that its eternal hunger is for time and space, and it strives evermore lo be born in the fruitful dust. Heaven is fulfilled in your sweet body, my child, in your palpitating heart
The sea is beating its drums in joy, the flowers are a-tiptoe to kiss you. For heaven is born in you, in the arms of the mother-dust.

SHE IS THE SPIRIT of an Autumn evening,
robed in the gleams of the vanished sunset,
carrying the promise of the immense peace of the star,
guiding with her speechless ministry
the languid steps of the long lingering hours of the reluctant night
into the neighbourhood of the morning star.
Her tresses touched by the gentle breeze of the dawn,
that smell of the morning worship,
her sad and sweet face of the day's end
becomes radiant with the blessedness of the morning light.

I HAVE donned this new robe to-day because my body feels like singing.
        It is not enough that I am given to my love once and for ever, but out of that I must fashion new gifts every day; and shall I not seem a fresh offering, dressed in a new robe?
        My heart, like the evening sky, has its endless passion for colour, and therefore I change my veils, which have now the green of the cool young grass and now that of the winter rice.
        To-day my robe is tinted with the rain-rimmed blue of the sky. It brings to my limbs the colour of the boundless, the colour of the oversea hills; and it carries in its folds the delight of summer clouds flying in the wind.