THERE ARE numerous strings in your lute, let me add my own among them. Then when you smite your chords my heart will break its silence and my life will be one with your song. Amidst your numberless stars let me place my own little lamp. In the dance of your festival of lights my heart will throb and my life will be one with your smile.
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.