I HAVE LOOKED on this picture in many a month of March when the mustard is in bloom-this lazy line of the water and the grey of the sand beyond, the rough path along the river-bank carrying the comradeship of the field into the heart of the village.
        I have tried to capture in rhyme the idle whistle of the wind, the beat of the oar-strokes from a passing boat
        I have wondered in my mind how simply it stands before me, this great world: with what fond and familiar ease it fills my heart, this encounter with the Eternal Stranger.

YOU ALLOWED your kingly power to vanish, Shajahan, but your wish was to make imperishable a tear-drop of love.
Time has no pity for the human heart, he laughs at its sad struggle to remember.
You allured him with beauty, made him captive, and crowned the formless death with fadeless form.
The secret whispered in the hush of night to the ear of your love is wrought in the perpetual silence of stone.
Though empires crumble to dust, and centuries are lost in shadows the marble still sighs to the stars, 'I remember.'
'I remember.'-But life forgets, for she has her call to the Endless and she goes on her voyage unburdened, leaving her memories to the forlorn forms of beauty.

THE MIST, like love, plays upon the heart of the hills and brings out surprises of beauty.