Observations placeholder

I know thee as my God and stand apart--I do not know thee as my
own and come closer.  I know thee as my father and bow before thy
feet--I do not grasp thy hand as my friend's.

I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine,
there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade.

Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I
divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee.

In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus
stand by thee.  I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not
plunge into the great waters of life.

When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first
splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'Oh,
the picture of perfection!  the joy unalloyed!'

But one cried of a sudden--'It seems that somewhere there is a
break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.'

The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and
they cried in dismay--'Yes, that lost star was the best, she was
the glory of all heavens!'

From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes
on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one
joy!

Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper
among themselves--'Vain is this seeking!  unbroken perfection is
over all!'

If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me
ever feel that I have missed thy sight--let me not forget for a
moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in
my wakeful hours.

As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands
grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have
gained nothing--let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the
pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my
bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is
still before me--let me not forget a moment, let me carry the
pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the
laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited
thee to my house--let me not forget for a moment, let me carry
the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the
sky, O my sun ever-glorious!  Thy touch has not yet melted my
vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and
years separated from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this
fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with
gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied
wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I
shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile
of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent.

On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.  But it is
never lost, my lord.  Thou hast taken every moment of my life in
thine own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into
sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had
ceased.  In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with
wonders of flowers.

Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.  There is none to count
thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.  Thou
knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for
a chances.  We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every
querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all
offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut;
but I find that yet there is time.

Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my
tears of sorrow.

The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet,
but mine will hang upon thy breast.

Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to
withhold them.  But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and
when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy
grace.

It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world
and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights
from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in
rainy darkness of July.

It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and
desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is
that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart.

When the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where
had they hid their power?  Where were their armour and their
arms?

They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon
them on the day they came out from their master's hall.

When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where
did they hide their power?

They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow;
peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of
their life behind them on the day they marched back again to
their master's hall.