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?

IN THE THRILL of little leaves
I see the air's invisible dance,
and in their glimmering
the secret heart-beats of the sky.

THE MORNING-light aches
with the pain of parting.
Poet, take up thy flute!
Let be, if thou must depart, and go,
leaving thy song to the flowers
in this dew-dripping autumn.
Such a morning will come again
at the gold-tinted border of the East
with kunda flowers in her locks.
In the shady garden path, plaintive with dove's cooing,
tender with the caressing enchantment of the green,
will rise again the vision of this light,
her steps tinkling with the anklet of thine own songs.
Let be, if thou must depart.