IT IS LITTLE that remains now, the rest was spent in one careless summer. It is just enough to put in a song and sing to you; to weave in a flower- chain gently clasping your wrist; to hang in your ear like a round pink pearl, like a blushing whisper; to risk in a game one evening and utterly lose. My boat is a frail small thing, not fit for crossing wild waves in the rain. If you but lightly step on it I shall gently row you by the shelter of the shore, where the dark water in ripples are like a dream-ruffled sleep; where the dove's cooing from the drooping branches makes the noon- day shadows plaintive. At the day's end, when you are tired, I shall pluck a dripping lily to put in your hair and take my leave.
I KNOW THAT at the dim end of some day the sun will bid me its last farewell. Shepherds will play their pipes beneath the banyan trees, and cattle graze on the slope by the river, while my days will pass into the dark. This is my prayer, that I may know before I leave why the earth called me to her arms. Why her night's silence spoke to me of stars, and her daylight kissed my thoughts into flower. Before I go may I linger over my last refrain, completing its music, may the lamp be lit to see your face and the wreath woven to crown you.