THE RIVER is grey and the air dazed with blown sand. On a morning of dark disquiet, when the birds are mute and their nests shake in the gust, I sit alone and ask myself, 'Where is she?' The days have flown wherein we sat too near each other; we laughed and jested, and the awe of love's majesty found no words at our meetings. I made myself small, and she trifled away every moment with pelting talk. To-day I wish in vain that she were by me, in the gloom of the coming storm, to sit in the soul's solitude.
FROM TRIUMPH to triumph they drove their chariot over the earth's torn breast. Round them Time's footsteps were muffled and slow, and birds' songs lay gathered in the bosom of Night. Drunken of red fire their torch spread its glare like an arrogant lotus floating upon the blue with stars above as bees enchanted. They boasted that the undying lights of the sky fed the flame they carried till it conquered the night and won homage from the sullen silence of the dark. The bell sounds. They start up to find they had slept dreaming of wealth and pollution of power and the pillage of God's own temple. The sun of the new day shines upon the night's surrender of love. The torch lies shrouded in its ashes, and the sky rings with the rejoicing voice, 'Victory to the earth! Victory to the heaven! Victory to the all-conquering Light!'
