LETTERS FROM ABROAD
a happy ending. Our matriculation class has ever been the fifth act in our Ashram, ending in a tragedy. Let us drop the scene, before that disaster gathers its forces!
I am enclosing with this a translation, which runs thus:
WOMAN
The fight is ended. Shrill cries of loss trouble the air, The gains, soiled and shattered, are a burden too heavy to carry home. Come, woman, bring thy breath of life. - Close all cracks with kisses of tender green, Nurse the trampled dust into fruitfulness.
The morning wears on: The stranger sits homeless by the road-side playing on his reed, Come woman, bring thy magic of love! Make infinite the corner between walls, There to build a world for him, Thine eyes its stars, thy voice its music,
The gate-door creaks in the wind. The time is for leave-taking at the day’s end. Come, woman, bring thy tears! Let thy tremulous touch call out its last lyric From the moment of parting, Let the shadow of thy sad gaze Haunt the road across the hills.
