The reflection of light in the dew
In a rosebud that is dome to silence
Crowns the windy ripples in a pond
That is to a temple wrapt in darkness
A ray of light perfumed
In still waters.
In the sad music of the morning breeze caressing the leaves.
What eclipse in shroud of slumber
Cloaks at dawn the sun ?
What primordial law embraces the dark form of space
In perpetual darkness
Only by the rays of the leaf of the candle flame ?
Those that watered the garden
Did not taste of its pomegranates
But are in earth in the womb of nature,
The tearful drops of dew that drips from the leaves
Do not mourn them.
The path of the sun is clouded by the dark of the moon
Nightfall embraces the flower buds at the hour of descending dawn
Reason slumbers from the motion of many dying ripples
But not in the bust that is a mirror
To the peeble in the sparkling waters.
It is not the painting of the rose in bloom
That breathes a sceptre to the memory of its blossom
But the breeze of the sceptered seed.
Perhaps the winds that pluck the buds of the lilies
Is spirit of beloved but departed fingers
That once heard the flute of natures laughing waters
But now, as kings, live in the notes of its music.
The darkness that is in the tears of the misty clouds
Becomes the springs
And the invisible dew of the evaporating waters
Becomes the army of gathering clouds
That waters the garden of the earth
In dew drops in the waters of eternity.