TWO LITTLE bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that metaphor, 'Flowers are the footprints of summer.' They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be erased by a passing breeze. Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.
WHO IS AWAKE all alone in this sleeping earth, in the air drowsing among the moveless leaves? awake in the silent birds' nests, in the secret centres of the flower buds? awake in the throbbing stars of the night, in the depth of the pain of my being?