night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last
words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.

62

In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love who was mine
in a former life.

Her house stood at the end of a desolate street.
In the evening breeze her pet peacock sat drowsing on its perch,
and the pigeons were silent in their corner.

She set her lamp down by the portal and stood before me.
She raised her large eyes to my face and mutely asked, "Are you
well, my friend?"
I tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten.

I thought and thought; our names would not come to my mind.
Tears shone in her eyes. She held up her right hand to me. I
took it and stood silent.

Out lamp had flickered in the evening breeze and died.

63

Traveller, must you go?
The night is still and the darkness swoons upon the forest.
The lamps are bright in our balcony, the flowers all fresh, and
the youthful eyes still awake.
Is the time for your parting come?
Traveller, must you go?

We have not bound your feet with our entreating arms.
Your doors are open. Your horse stands saddled at the gate.
If we have tried to bar your passage it was but with our songs.
Did we ever try to hold you back it was but with our eyes.
Traveller, we are helpless to keep you. We have only our tears.

What quenchless fire glows in your eyes?
What restless fever runs in your blood?
What call from the dark urges you?
What awful incantation have you read among the stars in the sky,
that with a sealed secret message the night entered your heart,
silent and strange?

If you do not care for merry meetings, if you must have peace,
weary heart, we shall put our lamps out and silence our harps.
We shall sit still in the dark in the rustle of leaves, and the
tired moon will shed pale rays on your window.
O traveller, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heart
of the mid-night?

64

I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road.
Now, in the cool of the evening, I knock at the door of the inn.
It is deserted and in ruins.
A grim _ashath_ tree spreads its hungry clutching roots
through the gaping fissures of the walls.

Days have been when wayfarers came here to wash their weary feet.
They spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the
early moon, an