5 "Fruit to sell, Fruit to sell," cried the woman at the door. The Child came out of the house. "Give me some fruit," said he, putting a handful of rice in her basket. The fruit-seller gazed at his face and her eyes swam with tears. "Who is the fortunate mother," she cried, "that has clasped you in her arms and fed you at her breast, and whom your dear voice called 'Mother'?" "Offer your fruit to him," says the poet, "and with it your life." II 1 Endlessly varied art thou in the exuberant world, Lady of Manifold Magnificence. Thy path is strewn with lights, thy touch thrills into flowers; that trailing skirt of thine sweeps the whirl of a dance among the stars, and thy many-toned music is echoed from innumerable worlds through signs and colours. Single and alone in the unfathomed stillness of the soul, art thou, Lady of Silence and Solitude, a vision thrilled with light, a lonely lotus blossoming on the stem of love. 2 Behind the rusty iron gratings of the opposite window sits a girl, dark and plain of face, like a boat stranded on a sand-bank when the river is shallow in the summer. I come back to my room after my day's work, and my tired eyes are lured to her. She seems to me like a lake with its dark lonely waters edged by moonlight. She has only her window for freedom: there the morning light meets her musings, and through it her dark eyes like lost stars travel back to their sky. 3 I remember the day. The heavy shower of rain is slackening into fitful pauses, renewed gusts of wind startle it from a first lull. I take up my instrument. Idly I touch the strings, till, without my knowing, the music borrows the mad cadence of that storm. I see her figure as she steals from her work, stops at my door, and retreats with hesitating steps. She comes again, stands outside leaning against the wall, then slowly enters the room and sits down. With head bent, she plies her needle in silence; but soon stops her work, and looks out of the window through the rain at the blurred line of trees. Only this--one hour of a rainy noon filled with shadows and song and silence. 4 While stepping into the carriage she turned her head and threw me a swift glance of farewell. This was her last gift to me. But where can I keep it safe from the trampling hours? Must evening sweep this gleam of anguish away, as it will the last flicker of fire from the sunset? Ought it to be washed off by the rain, as treasured pollens are from heart-broken flowers? Leave kingly glory and the wealth of the rich to death. But may not tears keep ever fresh the memory of a glance flung through a passionate moment? "Give it to me to keep," said my song; "I never touch kings' glory or the wealth of the rich, but these small things are mine for ever." 5