to attain the elusive clue to the world that is beyond the world:
I know not what wine of the wild poppy I have drunk, that there is this madness in my eyes. There are eyes that smile and eyes that weep, and there is madness in my eyes.
The memory that comes to such a prodigal is overwhelming; it seems that the emotion of the ages is behind him:
Do the memories of banished months of May linger in my limbs?…
Is it true that your love travelled through all the ages of the world in search of me?
In the measure of that past and its human accumulations lurks the sign of the desire of what is to come:
Is it then true that the mystery of the Infinite is written on this little forehead of mine?
It is the true follower of Nimái, the worshipper of the heaven that descends to earth, who writes these songs; who in them proclaims that the road to the supernal beauty leads through the commonest of love's experiences:
No, my friends, I shall never be an ascetic, whatever you may say.… If I cannot find a shady shelter and a companion for my penance, I shall never turn ascetic.
