Love, my heart longs day and night for the meeting with you--for the meeting that is like all-devouring death.
Sweep me away like a storm; take everything I have; break open my sleep and plunder my dreams. Rob me of my world.
In that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit, let us become one in beauty.
Alas for my vain desire! Where is this hope for union except in thee, my God?
51
Then finish the last song and let us leave.
Forget this night when the night is no more.
Whom do I try to clasp in my arms? Dreams can never be made captive.
My eager hands press emptiness to my heart and it bruises my breast.
52
Why did the lamp go out?
I shaded it with my cloak to save it from the wind, that is why the lamp went out.
Why did the flower fade?
I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the flower faded.
Why did the stream dry up?
I put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why the stream dried up.
Why did the harp-string break?
I tried to force a note that was beyond its power, that is why the harp-string is broken.
53
Why do you put me to shame with a look?
I have not come as a beggar.
Only for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyard outside the garden hedge.
Why do you put me to shame with a look?
Not a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did I pluck.
I humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every strange traveller may stand.
Not a rose did I pluck.
Yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down.
The winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.
The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from defeat.
My feet were tired.
I know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at your door.
Flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes.
How could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark?
I know not what you thought of me.
The day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment.
I leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this seat on the grass.
It has darkened; shut your door; I go my way.
The day is ended.
54
Where do you hurry with your basket this late evening when the marketing is over?
They all have come home with their burdens; the moon peeps from above the village trees.
The echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across the dark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?
Sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth.
The nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of the bamboo leaves are silent.
The labourers home from their fields spread their mats in the courtyards.
Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?
55
It was mid-day when you went away.
The sun was strong in the sky.
I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went away.
Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distant fields.
The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my room humming the news of many distant fields.
The village slept in the noonday heat. The road lay deserted.
In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died.
I glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name I had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat.
I had forgotten to braid my hair. The languid breeze played with it upon my cheek.
The river ran unruffled under the shady bank.
The lazy white clouds did not move.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
It was mid-day when you went away.
The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting.