LIKE A CHILD that frets and pushes away its toys, my heart today shakes its head at every phrase I suggest, and says, 'No, not this.' Yet words, in the agony of their vagueness, haunt my mind, like vagrant clouds hovering over hills, waiting for some chance wind to relieve them of their rain. But leave these vain efforts, my soul, for the stillness will ripen its own music in the dark. My life today is like a cloister during some penance, where the spring is afraid to stir or to whisper. This is not the time, my love, for you to pass the gate; at the mere thought of your anklet bells tinkling down the path, the garden echoes are ashamed. Know that to-morrow's songs are in bud to-day, and should they se you walk by they would strain to breaking their immature hearts.
PUT OUT THE lamps, my heart, the lamps of your lonely night. The call comes to you to open your doors, for the morning light is abroad. Leave your lute in the corner, my heart, the lute of your lonely life. The call comes to you to come out in silence, for the morning sings your own songs.
