What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life?
My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the
portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony?
Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou
givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me.
She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the 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 herds, through
trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western
ocean of rest.
But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the
stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never,
never a word.
Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and stands at my
door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and
With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of misty cloud,
turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring it with hues everchanging.
It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, 0
thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its
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