137
Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
138
History slowly smothers its truth,
but hastily struggles to revive it
in the terrible penance of pain.
139
My work is rewarded in daily wages,
I wait for my final value in love.
140
Beauty knows to say, "Enough,"
barbarism clamours for still more.
141
God loves to see in me, not his servant,
but himself who serves all.
142
The darkness of night is in harmony with day,
the morning of mist is discordant.
143
In the bounteous time of roses love is wine,—
it is food in the famished hour
when their petals are shed.
144
An unknown flower in a strange land
speaks to the poet:
"Are we not of the same soil, my lover?"