YOU CAME TO me in the wayward hours of spring with flute songs and flowers.
You troubled my heart from ripples into waves, rocking the red lotus of love.
You asked me to come out with you into the secret of life.
But I fell asleep among the murmurous leaves of May.
When I woke the cloud gathered in the sky and the dead leaves flitted in the wind.
Through the patter of rain I hear your nearing footsteps and the cry to come out with you into the secret of death.
I walk to your side and put my hand into yours, while your eyes burn and water drips from your hair.

THY GIFT OF THE earliest flower came to me this morning, and came the faint tuning of thy light.
I am a bee that has wallowed in the heart of thy golden dawn,
My wings are radiant with its pollen.
I have found my place in the feast of songs in thy April, and I am freed of my fetters like the morning of its mist in a mere play.

THE SCABBARD is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword.