Classic Poem

Camomile, you mite of whiteness,
To refresh the road I've taken,
Rising from the dust, you stand there,
With your glowing head uplifted...

For a poor man trekking stubbles,
Such a blossom's full of riches –
Now I'm not alone, that's certain –
In earth's void, I'm not forsaken...

Cured the ills of nagging hardship,
Quiet now the pain of longing,
Vanished from my breast the exile's
Terror of earth crucifixion...

Since you've brimmed the sun's own chalice,
Darkling, I stride on more surely,
While my heart in silence reckons
What you're singing to my spirit...