My master's flute sounds through all things, drawing me out of my lodgings wherever they may be, and while I listen I know that every step I take is in my master's house. For he is the sea, he is the river that leads to the sea, and he is the landing-place. 7 Strange ways has my guest. He comes at times when I am unprepared, yet how can I refuse him? I watch all night with lighted lamp; he stays away; when the light goes out and the room is bare he comes claiming his seat, and can I keep him waiting? I laugh and make merry with friends, then suddenly I start up, for lo! he passes me by in sorrow, and I know my mirth was vain. I have often seen a smile in his eyes when my heart ached, then I knew my sorrow was not real. Yet I never complain when I do not understand him. 8 I am the boat, you are the sea, and also the boatman. Though you never make the shore, though you let me sink, why should I be foolish and afraid? Is reaching the shore a greater prize than losing myself with you? If you are only the haven, as they say, then what is the sea? Let it surge and toss me on its waves, I shall be content. I live in you whatever and however you appear. Save me or kill me as you wish, only never leave me in other hands. 9 Make way, O bud, make way, burst open thy heart and make way. The opening spirit has overtaken thee, canst thou remain a bud any longer? III 1 Come, Spring, reckless lover of the earth, make the forest's heart pant for utterance! Come in gusts of disquiet where flowers break open and jostle the new leaves! Burst, like a rebellion of light, through the night's vigil, through the lake's dark dumbness, through the dungeon under the dust, proclaiming freedom to the shackled seeds! Like the laughter of lightning, like the shout of a storm, break into the midst of the noisy town; free stifled word and unconscious effort, reinforce our flagging fight, and conquer death! 2 I have looked on this picture in many a month of March when the mustard is in bloom--this lazy line of the water and the grey of the sand beyond, the rough path along the river-bank carrying the comradeship of the field into the heart of the village. I have tried to capture in rhyme the idle whistle of the wind, the beat of the oar-strokes from a passing boat. I have wondered in my mind how simply it stands before me, this great world: with what fond and familiar ease it fills my heart, this encounter with the Eternal Stranger. 3 The ferry-boat plies between the two villages facing each other across the narrow stream. The water is neither wide nor deep--a mere break in the path that enhances the small adventures of daily life, like a break in the words of a song across which the tune gleefully streams. While the towers of wealth rise high and crash to ruin, these villages talk to each other across the garrulous stream, and the ferry-boat plies between them, age after age, from seed-time to harvest. 4