![]() ![]() From the solemn gloom of the temple children run out to sit in the dust, God watches them play and forgets the priest. Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past. April, like a child, writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers, wipes them away and forgets. Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song. My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance, and therefore you may remember them. Days are coloured bubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless night. Let my love, like sunlight, surround you and yet give you illumined freedom. The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadow which yet it never can grasp. My thoughts, like spark, ride on winged surprises, carrying a single laughter. The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. Mind's underground moths grow filmy wings and take a farewell flight in the sunset sky. ![]() My words that are slight may lightly dance upon time's waves when my works heavy with import have gone down. Joy freed from the bond of earth's slumber rushes into numberless leaves, and dances in the air for a day. Spring scatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the future, but for the moment's whim. In the drowsy dark caves of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan. The voice of wayside pansies, that do not attract the careless glance, murmurs in these desultory lines. My fancies are fireflies, - Specks of living light twinkling in the dark. ![]()
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