WHAT MUSIC is that in whose measure the world is rocked? We laugh when it beats upon the crest of life, we shrink in terror when it returns into the dark. But the play is the same that comes and goes with the rhythm of the endless music. You hide your treasure in the palm of your hand, and we cry that we are robbed. But open and shut your palm as you will, the gain and the loss are the same. At the game you play with your own self you lose and win at once.
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.
