WHEN THE market is over and they return homewards through the dusk, I sit at the wayside to watch thee plying thy boat, Crossing the dark water with the sunset gleam upon thy sail; I see thy silent figure standing at the helm and suddenly catch thy eyes gazing upon me; I leave my song; and cry to thee to take me across.
IN BABYS world, the trees shake their leaves at him, murmuring verses in an ancient tongue that dates from before the age of meaning, and the moon feigns to be of his own age-the solitary baby of night. In the world of the old, flowers dutifully blush at the make-believe of faery legends, and broken dolls confess that they are made of clay.
