SHE IS STILL a child, my lord. She runs about your palace and plays, and tries to make of you a plaything as well. She heeds not when her hair tumbles down and her careless garment drags in the dust. She falls asleep when you speak to her and answers not-and the flower you give her in the morning slips to the dust from her hands. When the storm bursts and darkness is over the sky she is sleepless; her dolls lie scattered on the earth and she clings to you in terror. She is afraid that she may fail in service to you. But with a smile you watch her at her game. You know her. The child sitting in the dust is your destined bride; her play will be stilled and deepened into love.
ON MY WAY to recovery when I received Nature's earliest friendly greetings, she held before my eyes her precious gift of endless first surprise. And those trees and the blue sky bathed in morning light though ancient and ever-known revealed to me in them creation's everlasting first moment and I felt that this one birth of mine is woven in the web of many births of many changing forms and like the sunlight composed of varied rays every appearance in its unity is blended with countless invisible other ones.
