"
They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be
erased by a passing breeze.
Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the
everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.
7
I am like the night to you, little flower.
I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.
When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall leave you to a world a-hum
with bees, and songful with birds.
My last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; it
will make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on the
pitiless mirth of day.
8
Do not stand before my window with those hungry eyes and beg for my secret.
It is but a tiny stone of glistening pain streaked with blood-red by
passion.
What gifts have you brought in both hands to fling before me in the dust?
I fear, if I accept, to create a debt that can never be paid even by the
loss of all I have.
Do not stand before my window with your youth and flowers to shame my
destitute life.
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