A RAY OF morning sun strikes aslant at the door. The assembled crowd feel in their blood the primaeval chant of creation: 'Mother, open the gate!' The gate opens. The mother is seated on a straw bed with the babe on her lap, Like the dawn with the morning star. The sun's ray that was waiting at the door outside falls on the head of the child. The poet strikes his lute and sings out: 'Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.' They kneel down,the king and the beggar, the saint and the sinner, the wise and the fool,and cry: 'Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.' The old man from the East murmurs to himself: 'I have seen!'
ONLY A PORTION of my gift is in this world, the rest of it is in my dreams. You, who ever elude my touch, come there in secret silence, hiding your lamp. I shall know you by the thrill in the darkness, by the whisper of the unseen worlds, by the breath of the unknown shore;- I shall know you by the sudden delight of my heart melting into sadness of tears.
