I FEEL THAT your brief days of love have not been left behind in those scanty years of your life. I seek to know in what place, away from the slow-thieving dust, you keep them now. I find in my solitude some song of your evening that died, yet left a deathless echo; and the sighs of your unsatisfied hours I find nestled in the warm quiet of the autumn noon. Your desires come from the hive of the past to haunt my heart, and I sit still to listen to their wings.
IN THE lightning flash of a moment I have seen the immensity of your creation in my life-creation through many a death from world to world. I weep at my unworthiness when I see my life in the hands of the unmeaning hours,-but when I see it in your hands I know it is too precious to be squandered among shadows.