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.
MY PORTION OF THE best in this world will come from your hands: such was your promise. Therefore your light glistens in my tears. I fear to be led by others lest I miss you waiting in some road corner to be my guide. I walk my own wilful way till my very folly tempts you to my door. For I have your promise that my portion of the best in this world will come from your hands.