WHEN THE market is over and they return homewards through the dusk, I sit at the wayside to watch thee plying thy boat, Crossing the dark water with the sunset gleam upon thy sail; I see thy silent figure standing at the helm and suddenly catch thy eyes gazing upon me; I leave my song; and cry to thee to take me across.
COME TO MY garden walk, my love. Pass by the fervid flowers that press themselves on your sight. Pass them by, stopping at some chance joy, that like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines, yet eludes. For love's gift is shy, it never tells its name, it flits across the shade, spreading a shiver of joy along the dust. Overtake it or miss it for ever. But a gift that can be grasped is merely a frail flower, or a lamp with a flame that will flicker.