The morning
hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, _neem_ leaves
rustle overhead and I sit and think and think.
Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in
splendour among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass
in vain!
At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude,
my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh
awaken!
What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday
sun--what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst--
Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of
yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of
pain?
Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou
hast come down to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be
thy love if I were not?
Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my
heart is the endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is
ever taking shape.
Pages:
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56