WHY ARE THOSE tears in your eyes, my child?
How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?
You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing-is that why they call you dirty?
O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink?
For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are ready to find fault for nothing.
You tore your clothes while playing-is that why they call you untidy?
O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds?
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
They make a long list of your misdeeds.
Everybody knows how you love sweet things-is that why they call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?

THOU GROSSEST desert lands of barren years to reach the moment of fulfilment.

YOU, IN YOUR timeless watch, listen to my approaching steps, while your gladness gathers in the morning twilight and breaks in the burst of light.
The nearer I draw to you the deeper grows the fervour in the dance of the sea.
Your world is a branching spray of light filling your hands, but your heaven is in my secret heart; it slowly opens its buds in shy love.