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Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched

to her its eager arms in vain.

I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of

my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and

decay of my life.

Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned

yet dwelled alone and apart.

Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away

in despair.

There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and

she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.

67.

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well.

O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the

soul with colours and sounds and odours.

There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand

bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth.

And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by

herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace

in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest.