YOUR SPEECH is simple, my Master, but not theirs who talk of you.
I understand the voice of your stars and the silence of your trees.
I know that my heart would open like a flower; that my life has filled itself at a hidden fountain.
Your songs, like birds from the lonely land of snow, are winging to build their nests in my heart against the warmth of its April, and I am content to wait for the merry season.

IT WAS GROWING dark when I asked her, 'What strange land have I come to?'
        She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in thethroat of her jar, as she walked away.
        The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it already belonged to the past.
        The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against the water-jar from down the lane.
Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,-for I love the look of this land.
        The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the marble landing haunts the dark water.
        Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlet tinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the lane littered with leaves.
        The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town hums wearily.
        Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.
Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a water-jar.

LET ALL THE strains of joy mingle in my last song-the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws
everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word.