IN THE LIGHT of this thriftless day of spring, my poet, sing of those who pass by and do not linger, who laugh as they run and never look back, who blossom in an hour of unreasoning delight, and fade in a moment without regret.
Do not sit down silently, to tell the beads of your past tears and smiles,-do not stop to pick up the dropped petals from the flowers of overnight, do not go to seek things that evade you, to know the meaning that is not plain,-leave the gaps in your life where they are, for the music to come out of their depths.

THOSE WHO have everything but thee, my God, laugh at those who have nothing but thyself.

I BELIEVE YOU had visited me in a vision before we ever met, like some foretaste of April before the spring broke into flower.
        That vision must have come when all was bathed in the odour of sal blossom; when the twilight twinkle of the river fringed its yellow sands, and the vague sounds of a summer afternoon were blended; yes, and had it not laughed and evaded me in many a nameless gleam at other moments?