The Child came out of the house.
"Give me some fruit," said he, putting a handful of rice in her basket.
The fruit-seller gazed at his face and her eyes swam with tears.
"Who is the fortunate mother," she cried, "that has clasped you in her arms
and fed you at her breast, and whom your dear voice called 'Mother'?"
"Offer your fruit to him," says the poet, "and with it your life."
II
1
Endlessly varied art thou in the exuberant world, Lady of Manifold
Magnificence. Thy path is strewn with lights, thy touch thrills into
flowers; that trailing skirt of thine sweeps the whirl of a dance among the
stars, and thy many-toned music is echoed from innumerable worlds through
signs and colours.
Single and alone in the unfathomed stillness of the soul, art thou, Lady of
Silence and Solitude, a vision thrilled with light, a lonely lotus
blossoming on the stem of love.
2
Behind the rusty iron gratings of the opposite window sits a girl, dark and
plain of face, like a boat stranded on a sand-bank when the river is
shallow in the summer.
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