I thought I would sing love's words to their own tune, but that sounds only in my heart, and my eyes are silent. Would you know them, friend, if there were no tune? 17 In the night the song came to me; but you were not there. It found the words for which I had been seeking all day. Yes, in the stillness a moment after dark they throbbed into music, even as the stars then began to pulse with light; but you were not there. My hope was to sing it to you in the morning; but, try as I might, though the music came, the words hung back, when you were beside me. 18 The night deepens and the dying flame flickers in the lamp. I forgot to notice when the evening--like a village girl who has filled her pitcher at the river a last time for that day--closed the door on her cabin. I was speaking to you, my love, with mind barely conscious of my voice--tell me, had it any meaning? Did it bring you any message from beyond life's borders? For now, since my voice has ceased, I feel the night throbbing with thoughts that gaze in awe at the abyss of their dumbness. 19 When we two first met my heart rang out in music, "She who is eternally afar is beside you for ever." That music is silent, because I have grown to believe that my love is only near, and have forgotten that she is also far, far away. Music fills the infinite between two souls. This has been muffled by the mist of our daily habits. On shy summer nights, when the breeze brings a vast murmur out of the silence, I sit up in my bed and mourn the great loss of her who is beside me. I ask myself, "When shall I have another chance to whisper to her words with the rhythm of eternity in them?" Wake up, my song, from thy languor, rend this screen of the familiar, and fly to my beloved there, in the endless surprise of our first meeting! 20 Lovers come to you, my Queen, and proudly lay their riches at your feet: but my tribute is made up of unfulfilled hopes. Shadows have stolen across the heart of my world and the best in me has lost light. While the fortunate laugh at my penury, I ask you to lend my failings your tears, and so make them precious. I bring you a voiceless instrument. I strained to reach a note which was too high in my heart, and the string broke. While masters laugh at the snapped cord, I ask you to take my lute in your hands and fill its hollowness with your songs. 21 The father came back from the funeral rites. His boy of seven stood at the window, with eyes wide open and a golden amulet hanging from his neck, full of thoughts too difficult for his age. His father took him in his arms and the boy asked him, "Where is mother?" "In heaven," answered his father, pointing to the sky. At night the father groaned in slumber, weary with grief. A lamp dimly burned near the bedroom door, and a lizard chased moths on the wall. The boy woke up from sleep, felt with his hands the emptiness in the bed, and stole out to the open terrace.