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.
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp great night lights all her stars.
Though he holds in his arms the earthbride, the sky is ever immensely away.
God seeks comrades and claims love,the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience.
The soil in return for her service keeps the tree tied to her,the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.
Jewel-like the immortal does not boast of its length of years but of the scintillating point of its moment.
The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time,unobscured by the dust of history.
A light laughter in the steps of creation carries it swiftly across time.
One who was distant came near to me in the morning,and still nearer when taken awayhe by night.
White and pink oleanders meet and make merry in different dialects.
When peace is active sweeping its dirt,it is storm.
The lake lies low by the hill, a tearful entreaty of love at the foot of the inflexible.
There smiles the Divine Child among his playthings of unmeaning clouds and ephemeral lights and shadows.
The breeze whispers to the lotus,“what is thy secret?”
“It is myself,”says the lotus,“steal it and I disapper!”
The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stem join hands in the dance of swaying branches.
The jasmine"s lisping of love to the sun is her flowers.
The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom and yet to keep it for himself.
Gods,tired of their paradise,envy man.
Clouds are hills in vapour,hills are clouds in stone,-a phantasy in time’s dream.
While God waits for His temple to be built of love,men bring stones.
I touch God in my song as the hill touches the far-away sea with its waterfall.
Light finds her treasure of colours throgh the antagonism of clouds.
My heart to-day smiles at its past night of tears like a wet tree glistening in the sun after the rain is over.
I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitful,but have failed to remembery the grass that has ever kept it green.
The one without second is emptiness,the other one makes it ture.
Life’s errors cry for the merciful beauty that can modulate their isolation into a harmony with the whole.
They execpt thanks for the banished nest because their cage is shapely and secure.
In love I pay my endless debt to thee for what thou art.
The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies,and the sun says,they are good.
Your calumny against the great is impious, it hurts yourself;against the small it is mean, for it hurts the victim.
The first flower that blossomed on this earth was an invitation to the unborn song.
Dawn-the many-coloured flower-fades,and then simple light fruit,the sun appears.
The muscle that has a doubt of its wisdom throttles the voice that would cry.
The wind tries to take the flame by storm only to blow it out.
Life’s play is swift,Life’s playthings fall behind one by one and are forgotten.
My flower,seek not thy paradise in a fool’s buttonhole.
Thou hast risen late,my crescent moon,but my night bird is still awake to greet thee.
Darkness is the veiled bride silently waiting for the errant light to return to her bosom.
Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.
The burden of self is lightened when i laugh at myself.
The weak can be terrible because they try furiously to appear strong.
The wind of heaven blows,The anchor desperately clutches the mud,and my boat is beating its breast against the chain.
The spirit of death is one,the spirit of life is many.
When God is dead religion becomes one.
The blue of the sky longs for the earth’s green, the wind between them sighs,“Alas.”
Day’s pain muffled by its own glare,burns among stars in the night.
The stars crowd round the virgin night in silent awe at her loneliness that can never be touched.
The cloud gives all its gold to the departing sun and greets the rising moon with only a pale smile.
He who does good comes to the temple gate, he who loves reaches the shrine.
Flower, have pity for the worm,it is not a bee, its love is a blunder and burden.
With the ruins of terror’s triumph children build their doll’s house.
The lamp waits through the long day of neglect for the flame’s kiss in the night.
