Days pass by and she cries, “When will my beloved come whom I know not, and be known to me for ever?”
LVIII
Yours is the light that breaks forth from the dark, and the good that sprouts from the cleft heart of strife.
Yours is the house that opens upon the world, and the love that calls to the battlefield.
Yours is the gift that still is a gain when everything is a loss, and the life that flows through the caverns of death.
Yours is the heaven that lies in the common dust, and you are there for me, you are there for all.
LIX
When the weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the sultry day; when the ghostly hours of the dusk throw their shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch.
There is an anguish in my heart for the burden of its riches not given to you.
Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch of my loneliness.