Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain
into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end
in the folding of the wings over the
nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be
gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a
moment, and say your last words in
silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp
to light you on your way.
Similar Posts
O woman, you are not merely the
these are ever endowing you withbeauty from their hearts.Poets are weaving for you a webwith threads of golden imagery;painters are giving your form evernew immortality.The sea gives its pearls, the minestheir gold, the summer gardens theirflowers to deck you, to cover you, tomake you more precious.The desire of men’s hearts has shedits glory over your…
She who ever had remained in the depth of my being,
she who never opened her veils in the morning light,will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song.Words have wooed yet failed to win her;persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart,and around her…
I want to give you something, my child, for we are drifting in the
Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten.But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heartwith my gifts.Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love webring you at one draught and turn and run away from us.You have your play and your playmates….
`Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?’
`I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power,and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king.When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that was for my lord,and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.’`Prisoner, tell me, who was…
It is written in the book that Man, when fifty, must leave the
that the forest hermitage is only for the young. For it is thebirthplace of flowers and the haunt of birds and bees; and hiddenhooks are waiting there for the thrill of lovers’ whispers. Therethe moon-light, that is all one kiss for the malati flowers, hasits deep message, but those who understand it are far below…
WHEN I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street stand silent.
When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.It is my own heart that beats wildly — I do not know how to quiet it.When my love…