I AM GLAD you will not wait for me with that lingering pity in your look. It is only the spell of the night and my farewell words, startled at their own tune of despair, which bring these tears to my eyes. But day will dawn, my eyes will dry and my heart; and there will be no time for weeping. Who says it is hard to forget? The mercy of death works at life's core, bringing it respite from its own foolish persistence. The stormy sea is lulled at last in its rocking-cradle; the forest fire falls to sleep on its bed of ashes. You and I shall part, and the cleavage will be hidden under living grass and flowers that laugh in the sun.
IS SUMMER'S festival only for fresh blossoms and not also for withered leaves and faded flowers? Is the song of the sea in tune only with the rising waves? Does it not also sing with the waves that fall? Jewels are woven into the carpet where stands my king, but there are patient clods waiting to be touched by his feet. Few are the wise and the great who sit by my Master, but he has taken the foolish in his arms and made me his servant for ever.
THOU ART THE sky and thou art the nest as well. 0 thou beautiful, there in the nest it is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word.
