I AM THE weary earth of summer bare of life and parched. I wait for thy shower to come down in the night when I open my breast and receive it in silence. I long to give thee in return my songs and flowers. But empty is my store, and only the deep sigh rises from my heart through the withered grass. But I know that thou wilt wait for the morning when my hours will brim with their riches.
I WOKE AND found his letter with the morning. I do not know what it says, for I cannot read. I shall leave the wise man alone with his books, I shall not trouble him, for who knows if he can read what the letter says. Let me hold it to my forehead and press it to my heart. When the night grows still and stars come out one by one I will spread it on my lap and stay silent. The rustling leaves will read it aloud to me, the rushing stream will chant it, and the seven wise stars will sing it to me from the sky. I cannot find what I seek, I cannot understand what I would lean but this unread letter has lightened my burdens and turned my though into songs.
