YET I CAN never believe that you are lost to us, my king, though our poverty is great, and deep our shame. Your will works behind the veil of despair, and in your own time opens the gate of the impossible. You come, as unto your own house, into the unprepared hall, on the unexpected day. Dark ruins at your touch become like a bud nourishing unseen in its bosom the fruition of fulfilment. Therefore I still have hopenot that the wrecks will be mended, but that a new world will arise.
I KNOW THAT this life, missing its ripeness in love, is not altogether lost. I know that the flowers that fade in the dawn, the streams that strayed in the desert, are not altogether lost. I know that whatever lags behind in this life laden with slowness is not altogether lost. I know that my dreams that are still unfulfilled, and my melodies still unstruck, are clinging to some lute-strings of thine, and they are not altogether lost.