Do not grieve, little birds,
over the falling blossoms:
They're not to blame, it's the wind
who loosens and scatters the petals.
Spring persists in leaving us,
don't hold it against her.

I long for thee; must I long and long in vain?
I sigh for thee; will thou come not back again?
Though cold forms surround us
To sever all that bound us,
Gentle queen of my song.
The fields and the fair flowers shall welcome thee,
And all to thy pleasures shall belong;
Pride of my early years,
Thou art the queen of my song.

The days are gone, days of summer bright and gay,
The days of love we so fondly whiled away;
But still while I'm dreaming
Thy smiles are o'er me beaming,
Gentle queen of my song.
The wind o'er the lone meadow wails for thee,

I SANG of Love upon a virgin peak
Where the Madonna snows in holy peace
Breathed the pure incense of the edelweiss;
Yet as I sang amid the awful hush,
The 'passioned Sun God strode across the East,
And o'er the whiteness of the snow's pale cheek,—
Halting my song with wonder—stole a blush!

Faded the last red blossoms,
Small the new-born green apricots.
Where emerald waters wind about the house
Swallows are on the wing.
Let willow catkins dwindle after one more blast!
There's nowhere on earth but sweet grass will grow.

Within the wall there's a swing, without the highway.
A passerby without is struck by
A girl's sweet laughter within.
Silence prevails as the laughter fades away,
And the enchanted for the unfeeling enchantress
Can only heave a sigh.

The Lord accepts the love of all.
With whatsoever mind each serves Him, He knows the inner secrets of the heart.
Sevri tasted the wild plums: she set aside the sweet ones.
He put aside all scruples of defilement and ate them with undoubted mind.
Syama the friend of Sants and Bhagats came to Bidur's house.
His kindness over-flowed in boundless love: freely he tasted of his herbs.
Sent by the Kawravas the Risi came to curse: but with a single leaf all were sated.
Sur Das, the Lord is the treasury of mercy from age to age he has magnified His worshippers.

T'ung-ch'uan is a beautiful place:
on all sides, emerald hibiscus!
A tall pagoda guards the pass, alone;
a clear stream embraces city walls.
The marketplace resounds with accents of Wu visitors;
some shrines bear dedications from Han days.
I want to visit the Immortal Hermit, Mei,
but which mountain is he hiding on?

Thou and spring together came,
And if spring brought many a flower,
'Neath the sunshine of thy name,
'Neath thy sweet life-giving power,
Dormant hearts sprang into flame;
To their brightness flowers were tame

Thou wast greater, then, than spring
In the glory of thy deed,
And the flowers which thou didst bring
Wind nor winter do not heed;
Hearts will bloom and love will sing,
When lies dead May's offering.

We go, we know not whither;
We came, we know not whence:
But He who brought us hither
Will surely guide us hence.

He will, for He has said it:
Himself has bid us come—
Has told us not to dread it,
The road that makes for Home;

The road that leads through sorrow
And suffering and pain
To that unthought-of morrow
When we all shall meet again.

He will, for He has sent us
A Man to show the way;
One whom He always meant us
To follow and obey;

One who walk'd alone before us
In the ways that we have trod;

No Wanderer of Wood or Mountainside
Was ever lost who kept a Brook as Guide.

Active minds that think and study,
Like Swift Brooks are seldom Muddy.

T HE Brook though changing Water, Bed, and Course,
Is still That Brook; it cannot change its Source.

U NVEXED by Dust or Jar of Wheels or Hooves,
A River is a Silver Road that moves.

A BROOK will guide you up the Wildest Glen;
The Friendly Brook will lead you Home again.

That light we know to be only seeming;
Those stars in dream looking down on dreaming;
Blank space which cheats us; quick time which slips;
Thin ghosts of wines which deride our yearning;
Pale shadows of love which leave us burning
To gain the rapture of unseen lips:

The faiths too cold for the heart's subsistence;
Hope's light too faint on a bleak existence;
All ways too many for ends in doubt:
But though perplex'd by disorder'd courses—
One strength call'd up from the soul's resources—
Still to go on and to do without!