AS THE TENDER twilight covers in its fold of dusk-veil marks of hurt and wastage from the dusty day's prostration, even so let my great sorrow for thy loss. Beloved, spread one perfect golden-tinted silence of its sadness o'er my life. Let all its jagged fractures and distortions, all unmeaning scattered scraps and wrecks and random ruins, merge in vastness of some evening stilled with thy remembrance, filled with endless harmony of pain and peace united.
THE PAIN WAS great when the strings were being tuned, my Master! Begin your music, and let me forget the pain; let me feel in beauty what you had in your mind through those pitiless days. The waning night lingers at my doors, let her take her leave in songs. Pour your heart into my life strings, my Master, in tunes that descend from your stars.