6
I was to go away; still she did not speak. But I felt, from a slight
quiver, her yearning arms would say: "Ah no, not yet."
I have often heard her pleading hands vocal in a touch, though they knew
not what they said.
I have known those arms to stammer when, had they not, they would have
become youth's garland round my neck.
Their little gestures return to remembrance in the covert of still hours,
like truants they playfully reveal things she had kept secret from me.
7
My songs are like bees; they follow through the air some fragrant
trace--some memory--of you, to hum around your shyness, eager for its
hidden store.
When the freshness of dawn droops in the sun, when in the noon the air
hangs low with heaviness and the forest is silent, my songs return home,
their languid wings dusted with gold.
8
I believe you had visited me in a vision before we ever met, like some
foretaste of April before the spring broke into flower.
That vision must have come when all was bathed in the odour of _sal_
blossom; when the twilight twinkle of the river fringed its yellow sands,
and the vague sounds of a summer afternoon were blended; yes, and had it
not laughed and evaded me in many a nameless gleam at other moments?
9
I think I shall stop startled if ever we meet after our next birth, walking
in the light of a far-away world.
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