gain or to mourn his loss; his
heart beats the drum for his march, for that is to march with you
every step,

Fellow-traveller!

XIV

My portion of the best in this world will come from your hands:
such was your promise.

Therefore your light glistens in my tears.

I fear to be led by others lest I miss you waiting in some road
corner to be my guide.

I walk my own wilful way till my very folly tempts you to my
door.

For I have your promise that my portion of the best in this world
will come from your hands.

XV

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.

XVI

They knew the way and went to seek you along the narrow lane, but
I wandered abroad into the night for I was ignorant.

I was not schooled enough to be afraid of you in the dark,
therefore I came upon your doorstep unaware.

The wise rebuked me and bade me be gone, for I had not come by
the lane.

I turned away in doubt, but you held me fast, and their scolding
became louder every day.

XVII

I brought out my earthen lamp from my house and cried, "Come,
children, I will light your path!"

The night was still dark when I returned, leaving the road to its
silence, crying, "Light me, O Fire! for my earthen lamp lies
broken in the dust!"

XVIII

No: it is not yours to open buds into blossoms.

Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond your power to make it
blossom.

Your touch soils it, you tear its petals to pieces and strew them
in the dust.

But no colours appear, and no perfume.

Ah! it is not for you to open the bud into a blossom.

He who can open the bud does it so simply.

He gives it a glance, and the life-sap stirs through its veins.

At his breath the flower spreads its wings and flutters in the
wind.

Colours flush out like heart-longings, the perfume betrays a
sweet secret.

He who can open the bud does it so simply.

XIX

Sudas, the gardener, plucked from his tank the last lotus left by
the ravage of winter and went to sell it to the king at the
palace gate.

There he met a traveller who said to him, "Ask you