IT MAYBE THAT your loved ones will forsake you, but mind it not, my heart. It may be that the creeper of your hope will be laid low in the dust all torn, its fruits wasted,but mind it not, my heart It may be that the dark night will overtake you before you reach the gate, and your attempts will ever be in vain to light your lamp. When you tune your harp, the birds and the beasts of the wilderness will flock around you. It may be that your brothers will remain unmoved, but mind it not, my heart. The walls are of stones, the doors barred. It may be that you will knock oft and again, yet it will not open, but mind it not, my heart.
NO: IT IS NOT yours to open buds into blossoms. Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond your power to make it blossom. Your touch soils it, you tear its petals to pieces and strew them in the dust. But no colours appear, and no perfume. Ah! it is not for you to open the bud into a blossom. He who can open the bud does it so simply. He gives it a glance, and the life-sap stirs through its veins. At his breath the flower spreads its wings and flutters in the wind. Colours flush out like heart-longings, the perfume betrays a sweet secret. He who can open the bud does it so simply.
