twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her
veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God,
folded in my final song.

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.


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