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?
EVER IN MY life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and touching my world. It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart. They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have they brought me in the evening at the end of my journey?
