4
O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds--a
secret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with.
O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that
doze in the sun.
The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the
cause of my tears.
I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from
me.
5
For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way;
wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in
mist.
Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road,
where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water
heaves in the troubled sea.
Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it be
stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.
6
Two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that
metaphor, "Flowers are the footprints of summer.
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