I WOKE AND found his letter with the morning. I do not know what it says, for I cannot read. I shall leave the wise man alone with his books, I shall not trouble him, for who knows if he can read what the letter says. Let me hold it to my forehead and press it to my heart. When the night grows still and stars come out one by one I will spread it on my lap and stay silent. The rustling leaves will read it aloud to me, the rushing stream will chant it, and the seven wise stars will sing it to me from the sky. I cannot find what I seek, I cannot understand what I would lean but this unread letter has lightened my burdens and turned my though into songs.
SAY OF HIM what you please, but I know my child's failings. I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my little child. How should you know how dear he can be when you try to weigh his merits against his faults? When I must punish him he becomes all the more a part of my being. When I cause his tears to come my heart weeps with him. I alone have a right to blame and punish, for he only may chastise who loves.
