My fancies are fireflies,-Specks of living light twinkling in the dark.
The voice of wayside pansies,that do not attract the careless glance,murmurs in these desultory lines.
In the drowsy dark caves of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day’s caravan.
Spring scatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the future,but for the moment’s whim.
Joy freed from the bond of earth’s slumber rushes into numberless leaves,and dances in the air for a day.
My words that are slight may lightly dance upon time’s waves when my works heavy with import have gone down.
Mind’s underground moths grow filmy wings and take a farewell flight in the sunset sky.
The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.
My thoughts,like sparks,ride on winged surprises, carrying a single laughter.
The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadow which yet it never can grasp.
Let my love,like sunlight,surround you and yet give you illumined freedom.
Days are coloured bubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless night.
My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance,and therefore you may remember them.
Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.
April,like a child,writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers,wipes them away and forgets.
Memory,the priestess,kill the present and offers it heart to the shrine of the dead past.
From the solemn gloom of the temple children run out to sit in the dust, God watchs them play and forget the priest.
My mind starts up at some flash on the flow of its thoughts like a brook at a sudden liquid note of its own that is never repeated.
In the mountain,stillness surges up to explore its own height;in the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth.
The departing night’s one kiss on the closed eyes of morning glows in the star of down.
Maiden,thy beauty is like a fruit which is yet to mature,tense with an unyielding secret.
Sorrow that has lost its memory is like the dumb dark hours that have no bird songs but only the cricket’s chirp.
Bigotry tries to keep truth safe in its hand with a grip that kill it.