27

I filled my tray with whatever I had, and gave it to you. What shall I bring to your feet tomorrow, I wonder. I am like the tree that, at the end of the flowering summer, gazes at the sky with its lifted branches bare of their blossoms.
But in all my past offerings is there not a single flower made fadeless by the eternity of tears?
Will you remember it and thank me with your eyes when I stand before you with empty hands at the leavetaking of my summer days?

27

I filled my tray with whatever I had, and gave it to you. What shall I bring to your feet tomorrow, I wonder. I am like the tree that, at the end of the flowering summer, gazes at the sky with its lifted branches bare of their blossoms.
But in all my past offerings is there not a single flower made fadeless by the eternity of tears?
Will you remember it and thank me with your eyes when I stand before you with empty hands at the leavetaking of my summer days?

79

I often wonder where lie hidden the boundaries of recognition between man and the beast whose heart knows no spoken language.
Through what primal paradise in a remote morning of creation ran the simple path by which their hearts visited each other.
Those marks of their constant tread have not been effaced though their kinship has been long forgotten.
Yet suddenly in some wordless music the dim memory wakes up and the beast gazes into the man's face with a tender trust, and the man looks down into its eyes with amused affection.
It seems that the two friends meet masked and vaguely know each other through the disguise.