NO GUEST HAD come to my house for long, my doors were locked, my windows barred; I thought my night would be lonely. When I opened my eyes I found the darkness had vanished. I rose up and ran and saw the bolts of my gates all broken, and through the open door your wind and light waved their banner. When I was a prisoner in my own house, and the doors were shut, my heart ever planned to escape and to wander. Now at my broken gate, I sit still and wait for your coming, You keep me bound by my freedom.
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.
