IN THE ENDLESS paths of the world; among numberless activities, her nature is scattered with all that is unattained in her and incomplete. By the sick-bed around one eager aim she appears as a new vision complete in her being, where all the goodness of all things becomes centred in her, in her touch, in her sleepless anxious eyes.
THE RAINS sweep the sky from end to end. In the wild wet wind the jasmines revel in their own perfume. There is a secret joy in the bosom of the night, it is the joy of the veiled sky in its hidden stars, the joy of the midnight forest in its hoarded bird-songs. Let me fill my heart with it and carry it in secret through the day.
