:
"My song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown thy whispers"
(excerpts from) Fireflies
I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.
Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
Emancipation from the bondage of the soil
is no freedom for the tree.
In love i pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art.
The shore whispers to the sea:
"Write to me what thy waves struggle to say."
The sea writes in foam again and again
and wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair.
Let not my thanks to thee
rob my silence of its fuller homage.
The butterfly flitting from flower to flower
ever remains mine,
I lose the one that is netted by me.
I miss the meaning of my own part
in the play of life
because I know not of the parts
that others play.
Before the end of my journey
may I reach within myself
the one which is the all,
leaving the outer shell
to float away with the drifting multitude
upon the current of chance and change.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown thy whispers"
(excerpts from) Fireflies
I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.
Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
Emancipation from the bondage of the soil
is no freedom for the tree.
In love i pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art.
The shore whispers to the sea:
"Write to me what thy waves struggle to say."
The sea writes in foam again and again
and wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair.
Let not my thanks to thee
rob my silence of its fuller homage.
The butterfly flitting from flower to flower
ever remains mine,
I lose the one that is netted by me.
I miss the meaning of my own part
in the play of life
because I know not of the parts
that others play.
Before the end of my journey
may I reach within myself
the one which is the all,
leaving the outer shell
to float away with the drifting multitude
upon the current of chance and change.
