Asks the Possible to the Impossible,
Where is your dwelling-place?
In the dreams of the impotent, comes the answer.
If you shut your door to all errors truth will be shut out.
I hear some rustle of things behind my sadness of heart,
---I cannot see them.
Leisure in its activity is work.
The stillness of the sea stirs in waves.
The leaf becomes flower when it loves.
The flower becomes fruit when it worships.
The roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches
fruitful.
This rainy evening the wind is restless.
I look at the swaying branches and ponder over the greatness of
all things.
Storm of midnight, like a giant child awakened in the untimely dark,
has begun to play and shout.
Thou raisest thy waves vainly to follow thy lover, O sea, thou
lonely bride of the storm.
I am ashamed of my emptiness, said the Word to the Work.
I know how poor I am when I see you, said the Work to the Word.
Time is the wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes
it mere change and no wealth.
Truth in her dress finds facts too tight.
In fiction she moves with ease.
When I travelled to here and to there, I was tired of thee, O Road,
but now when thou leadest me to everywhere I am wedded to thee in love.
Let me think that there is one among those stars that guides my life
through the dark unknown.
Woman, with the grace of your fingers you touched my things and order
came out like music.
One sad voice has its nest among the ruins of the years.
It sings to me in the night, ---I loved you.
The flaming fire warns me off by its own glow.
Save me from the dying embers hidden under ashes.
I have my stars in the sky.
But oh for my little lamp unlit in my house.
The dust of the dead words clings to thee.
Wash thy soul with silence.
Gaps are left in life through which comes the sad music of death.