WHEN BELLS sounded in your temple in the morning, men and women hastened down the woodland path with their offerings of fresh flowers. But I lay on the grass in the shade and let them pass by. I think it was well that I was idle, for then my flowers were in bud. At the end of the day they have bloomed, and I go to my evening worship.
MY SONG HAS put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers. My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.