THE FUGITIVE
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your kiss within, as the sun carries in its orb the fire of the divine touch and shines for ever.
12
Like a child that frets and pushes away its toys, my heart to-day shakes its head at every phrase I suggest, and says, "No, not this."
Yet words, in the agony of their vagueness, haunt my mind, like vagrant clouds hovering over hills, waiting for some chance wind to relieve them of their rain.
But leave these vain efforts, my soul, for the stillness will ripen its own music in the dark.
My life to-day is like a cloister during some penance, where the spring is afraid to stir or to whisper.
This is not the time, my love, for you to pass the gate; at the mere thought
