I've given poetry readings where less than a handful of people were present. It's a humbling experience. It’s also a deeply familiar experience.

"Poetry is useless," poet Geoffrey ****** said in a 2013 interview, "but it is useless the way the soul is useless—it is unnecessary, but we would not be what we are without it."

I was raised a Roman Catholic, and though I don’t go to Mass regularly anymore, I still remember early mornings during Advent when I went to liturgies at my parochial school. It was part of my offering—the sacrifice I made to honor the impending birth of the Savior—along with giving up candy at Lent. So few people attended at that hour that the priest turned on only a few lights near the altar. Approaching the front of the church, my plastic book bag rustling against my winter coat, I felt as if I were nearing the seashore at sunrise: the silhouettes of old widows on their kneelers at low tide, waiting for the priest to come in, starting the ritual in plain, unsung vernacular. No organist to blast us into reverence. No procession.

Every day, all over the world, these sparsely attended ceremonies still happen. Masses are said. Poetry is read. Poems are written on screens and scraps of paper. When I retire for the day, I move into a meditative, solitary, poetic space. These are the central filaments burning through my life, and the longer I live, the more they seem to be fused together.

Poetry is marginal, thankless, untethered from fame and fortune; it's also gut level, urgent, private yet yearning for connection. In all these ways, it's like prayer for me. I’m a not-quite-lapsed Catholic with Zen leanings, but I’ll always pray—and I’ll always write poems. Writing hasn’t brought me the Poetry Jackpot I once pursued, but it draws on the same inner wiring that flickers when I pray.        

• • •

In the 2012 collection A God in the House: Poets Talk About Faith, nineteen contemporary American poets, from Buddhist to Wiccan to Christian, discuss how their artistic and spiritual lives inform one another. Kazim Ali, who was raised a Shia Muslim, observes in his essay “Doubt and Seeking”:

[Prayer is] speaking to someone you know is not going to be able to speak back, so you're allowed to be the most honest that you can be. In prayer you're allowed to be as purely selfish as you like. You can ask for something completely irrational. I have written that prayer is a form of panic, because in prayer you don't really think you're going to be answered. You'll either get what you want or you won't.

You could replace the word "prayer" with "poetry" with little or no loss of meaning. I'd even go so far as to say that submitting my work to a journal often feels like this, too. Sometimes, when I get an answer in the form of an acceptance, I'm stunned.

"I never think of a possible God reading my poems, although the gods used to love the arts,” writes ***** Howe in her essay "Footsteps over Ground." She adds:

Poetry could be spoken into a well, of course, and drop like a penny into the black water. Sometimes I think that there is a heaven for poems and novels and music and dance and paintings, but they might only be hard-worked sparks off a great mill, which may add up to a whole-cloth in the infinite.

And here, you could easily replace the word "poetry" with "prayer." The penny falling to the bottom of a well is more often what we experience. But both poetry and prayer are things humans have learned to do in order to go on. Doubt is a given, but we do get to choose what it is we doubt.

A God in the House Book Cover
Quite a few authors in A God in the House (Howe, Gerald Stern, Jane Hirschfield, Christian Wiman) invoke the spiritual writing of Simone Weil, including her assertion that "absolutely unmixed attention is prayer." This sounds like the Zen concept of mindfulness. And it broadens the possibility for poetry as prayer, regardless of content, since writing poetry is an act of acute mindfulness. We mostly use words in the practical world to persuade or communicate, but prayers in various religious traditions can be lamentations of great sorrow. Help me, save me, take this pain away—I am in agony. In a church or a temple or a mosque, such prayerful lamentation is viewed as a form of expression for its own good, even when it doesn't lead immediately to a change of emotional state.

Perhaps the unmixed attention Weil wrote of is a unity of intention and utterance that’s far too rare in our own lives. We seldom match what we think or feel with what we actually say. When it happens spontaneously in poetry or prayer—Allen Ginsberg's "First thought, best thought" ideal —it feels like a miracle, as do all the moments when I manage to get out of my own way as a poet.

Many people who pray don’t envision a clear image of whom or what they’re praying to. But poets often have some sense of their potential readers. There are authorities whose approval I've tried to win or simply people I've tried to please: teachers, fellow writers, editors, contest judges—even my uncle, who actually reads my poems when they appear in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, where he used to work.

And yet, my most immersed writing is not done with those real faces in mind. I write to the same general entity to which I pray. It's as if the dome of my skull extends to the ceiling of the room I'm in, then to the dome of the sky and outward. It’s like the musings I had as a child lying awake at night, when my imagination took me to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. But then I emerge from this wide-open state and begin thinking about possible readers—and the faces appear.

This might also be where the magic ends.

• • •

I write poetry because it’s what I do, just as frogs croak and mathematicians ponder numbers. Poetry draws on something in me that has persisted over time, even as I’ve distracted myself with other goals, demands, and purposes; even as I’ve been forced by circumstance to strip writing poetry of certain expectations.

"Life on a Lily Pad" © Michelle Tribe
"Life on a Lily Pad"
© Michelle Tribe
At 21, I was sure I’d publish my first book before I was 25. I’m past my forties now and have yet to find a publisher for a book-length collection, though I've published more than a hundred individual poems and two chapbooks. So, if a “real” book is the equivalent of receiving indisputable evidence that your prayers are being answered, I’m still waiting.

It hasn’t been easy to shed the bitter urgency I’ve felt on learning that one of my manuscripts was a finalist in this or that contest, but was not the winner. Writing in order to attain external success can be as tainted and brittle as saying a prayer that, in truth, is more like a command: (Please), God, let me get through this difficulty (or else)—

Or else what? It’s a false threat, if there’s little else left to do but pray. When my partner is in the ICU, his lungs full of fluid backed up from a defective aortic valve; when my nephew is deployed to Afghanistan; when an ex is drowning in his addiction; when I hit a dead end in my job and don’t think I can do it one more day—every effort to imagine that these things might be gotten through is a kind of prayer that helps me weather a life over which I have little control.

Repeated disappointment in my quest to hit the Poetry Jackpot has taught me to recast the jackpot in the lowercase—locating it not in the outcome but in the act of writing itself, sorting out the healthy from the unhealthy intentions for doing it. Of course, this shift in perspective was not as neat as the preceding sentence makes it seem. There were years of thrashing about, of turning over stones and even throwing them, then moments of exhaustion when I just barely heard the message from within:

This is too fragile and fraught to be something that guides your whole life.

I didn't hear those words, exactly—and this is important. For decades, I’ve made my living as a writer. But I can't manipulate or edit total gut realizations. I can throw words at them, but it would be like shaking a water bottle at a forest fire; at best, I can chase the feeling with metaphors: It's like this—no, like this—or like this.

So, odd as this sounds for a poet, I now seek wordlessness. When I meditate, I intercept hundreds of times the impulse to shape a perception into words. Reduced to basics, the challenge facing any writer is knowing what to say—and what not to.

• • •

To read or listen to poetry requires unmixed attention just as writing it does. And when a poem is read aloud, there's a communal, at times ritualistic, element that can make a reading feel like collective prayer, even if there are only a few listeners in the audience or I’m listening by myself.

"Allen Ginsberg" © MDCArchives
Allen Ginsberg
© MDCArchives
When I want to feel moved and enlarged, all I have to do is play Patti Smith's rendition of Ginsberg's "Footnote to Howl." His long list poem from 1955 gathers people, places, objects, and abstractions onto a single exuberant altar. It’s certainly a prayer, one that opens this way:

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and **** and hand and ******* holy!

Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!

Some parts of Ginsberg's list ("forgiveness! charity! faith! bodies! suffering! magnanimity!") belong in any conventional catalogue of what a prayer celebrates as sacred. Other profane elements ("the ***** of the grandfathers of Kansas!") gain admission because they are swept up into his ritualistic roll call.

I can easily parody Ginsberg's litany: Holy the Dairy Queen, holy the barns of the Amish where cheese is releasing its ambitious stench, holy the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Internet. But reading the poem aloud feels to me the way putting on ritual garments must to a shaman or rabbi or priest. Watching Patti Smith perform the poem (various versions are available on YouTube), I get shivers seeing how it transforms her, and it's clear why she titled her treatment of the poem "Spell."

A parody can't do that. It can't manifest as the palpable unity of intention and utterance. It can't do what Emily Dickinson famously said that poetry did to her:

If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire ever can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only [ways] I know it. Is there any other way.

Like the process of prayer—to God, to a better and bigger self, to the atmosphere—writing can be a step toward unifying heart, mind, body, universe. Ginsberg's frenzied catalogue ends on "brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul"; Eliot's The Waste Land on "shantih," or "the peace that surpasseth understanding." Neither bang nor whimper, endings like these are at once humble and tenacious. They say "Amen" and step aside so that a greater wordlessness can work its magic.

It is not this yet this is on the path.  There is the coincidenceof two worlds each the antithesis of the other, mutually excvlusive; yet each is an affirmation of the other.  Like a double negative they cancel each other out.  This is the nothingness that cannot be known; the mystery that can never be solved .  The Nothingness preceedes all.  All is contained  in it yet it is unbound.  It is not a question  to be persued.  .  The child stands before it not understanding .  This is its the final reality- the non object- forever unknowable.  Yet this can be accepted  the permanent paradox , the dark and the light that is neither.  The One.  The One  accepts all, lets all otherness enter into  Being; and knowing not one knows: the grandeur,  that great peace which surpasseth understanding is knowing the  unknowable God.  He says I am that I am and we are fulled with joy that the Truth is in us and it is the gift of eternal being Unknown.

I.
On that divine-like hands and laps of thine, my grandmother,
Each moment I embraced a new learning.

On that tranquil Spring night, when the wave of stars washed over my eyes,
I cried—wishing to hold them
In my tiny hands. Since then, I learnt to cry.

To soothe my longing tears, thou didst sing a rhyming lullaby,
And spread a formless smile upon my face. Since then, I learnt to smile.

At the cooing rhythm of thy song,
Thou didst swing me—high and low,
In the air; my body, light as breath, danced upon melody. Since
then,I learnt to be thrilled by song.

A feeling, overflowing on the edge of wind brought the word of excitement
To my unawake lips. Since then, learnt to speak.

One morning, aye—as I stood drunk
With golden dawn, the waves in my eyes
Swirled with the falling leaves from a distant height.
The urge to touch them burned in my little heart.
Since then, I learnt to be curious.

Slipping away from thy tender hand, I ran to catch
A falling leaf. But—O fie!—
I could not catch it. I chased its flight,
But the wind took it farther still.
My eyes could not reach it as it vanished nto invisible sight.
Since then, I learnt to walk.

II.
I extend these words from the little heart of mine—
and that is my deepest Adulation to thee, my beloved parents!

I know not how I’ve wandered upon the Mesh of Age
to reach this mile of oldness—
nor dost I know how
I’ve rushed
over the many troubled obstacles
encountered through each age.

This little strange tale of mine, O dear ones, hath alighted from thy ***** hands.

In the kingly and queenly world of thine,
I expanded on the rhythm
of ineffable joyance. I know not its bounds—but surely, I cherished
the flower and its hidden honey
thou hast bestowed upon me
from the holy blossom of thy hearts.

Thou hast attained all my childly cravings
and adorned this sullen face of mine
with a garland of thy warm smiles.

Thou hast shielded me from all ailments,
given me warm garments—never
letting my body wither from winter’s breeze
or burn beneath the barnstorming heat of summer.

Mother, when hunger ailed my stomach,
I spelt thy name and cried
in dissonant pitch.Thou didst come
and place a plate of rice before me.

In the midst of night, when silence spread its wings and thirst parched my throat,
I awoke thee—and thou didst bring
a cup of water to quench my longing.

Father, what I must never forget about thee
is this: Thou hast shed endless blood and sweat
upon the earthly mud, so I may live this life of plenty.

I am grateful to both of thee—my beloved parents! Without thy presence,
I would not have come this far, nor so long.

III.
Mother, I've cried out the mighty tears
For one thing— and that's the signet ring.

I cried all the days and all the nights for that. I
Even refused to take the meals thou

Hast given to me from thy motherly hand.
Thou hast bought me the little play toy—

But fie, couldn't bring the harmony to these dissonant eyes of mine! The tears

Unseemly overflowed on its expanding Despair. I was a small and innocent kid,

My mother, as I saw that signet ring Glitter bright on the man's finger, it took

My eyes' captive  away and made me
Oozed upon the mesh of longingness.

By then, I witnessed the tears in my eyes.
I knew not how to extinguish this burning

Agony of my heart— it seemed more Intense as the days passed. All of my

Energies lost to pale weakness. I seem To have had sleepless nights; tossing

And turning on the bed, overshadowed
By the ailing insomnia. I only wished to

Have it on one of my fingers, bright and Illuminating grace like a blue diamond.

It was thy love, at last, thou Hast given it to me on the final day

And cured the very tears of craving. I Heaved a sigh of relief since then.

IV.
Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge! Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!

Thou art my dwelling through the ages, my belovèd Motherland. How fair and beloved art thou! Thou hast granted me a place most fitting, wherein to make my long and joyful sojourn.

It is my high privilege to live beneath thy sky, to embrace the endless favours thou hast poured upon me. Yea, the joy I have gathered is as the scent of thy very soil—sweet, unspoken, and full of pride unbounded.

All that is hushed and still—the mountains arrayed in peace, weaving the vision of beauty; all that is rich and gentle—the waters that stir the tongue like honey from the comb; all that is of the earth—the never-fading clay that upholdeth all life. O, I knew not I was made so accustomed to them! Such fortune is mine!

My life doth blossom brightly within thy heavenly garden; and now may I adorn mine own soul, within and without, as the Camellia flourisheth in thy midst. Would that my life had no end, and my limbs knew not decay—I would walk the ages over, treading centuries down, turning olden days into new.

Yet all thou hast bestowed upon me is not mine by right, but I have received it as sacred gift. Thou hast given unto me shelter, and stood before me without shame, exposed and undefended—yet in truth, thou hast guarded me from all harms. Such is thy divine favour, O my belovèd Motherland!

Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge! Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!

Deep am I plunged into the bottomless well of pride, that I was born upon this soil of kingly harmony. It is thy mercy alone that I have reached this age in safety; for that, I owe thee thanks eternal. Such is my fortune!

What know others of thee? What grasp they of that honey’d essence, thick and golden, that floweth from thy very breast, past all mortal words to tell?

To me, thou art loftier than all the spheres—there is naught above thee. Such is thy might. Thy love surpasseth all value; not even an age of a thousand years would suffice to repay it.

Yea, 'tis sin to tread upon thy sacred body—but thou, being ever patient and full of grace, hast borne my weight these many years, weariness and all.

Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge!
Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!

V.
Mother, the emblem of love,
A residence of eternal glory,
A supreme fragrance,
The Utopian idealist—
Gifted one, strong existentialist,
Dwelling
deep beneath the vault of stars.

O thou who art called Mother!
Thou art the balm to our mortal woes,
The song sung in joy that time forgetteth.
Under thy celestial embrace are
we sheltered,
And the stars do bear witness
to thy grace.

Men say thou hast reached the realm of purest love,
That high and holy sphere where
few may tread—
A summit unseen,
Where the soul drinketh joy as nectar divine.
Thou art the ever-watchful keeper,
A mirror of the soul celestial.
And we—naught but thy
shadows,
The very shadows thou dost bear
in silence.

Behind thy lashes, tears lie veiled,
Yet on thy lips, a smile endureth.
Thou hast armed us
With care unceasing, love unspent.
As the sun warmeth the field of sunflowers,
So hast thou warmed the days of our becoming.

O thou selfless being, echo of the primeval mother—
The ancient Devi, whom gods revere—
To thee are our hearts forever sworn.
Thou hast tended us with unseen hands,
And in thy absence, all is void,
And nothing liveth. Without
thee, O Mother, there is no being.
There is no meaning.
              
VI.
In this very fragrant and heavenly garden of thine, my noble king, I am one of the blooming flowers.
                      
Indeed, I had luck to be grown upon thy garden; and I never knew I would grow rich in fragrance, it's only the blessing thou hast bestowed upon me as a century-long gift.
                      
All that I am embracing is none other than the grace of light that showers richly from thy own kingly heart, and it knows no bounds.
                      
This small garden of thine, for which thou hast immense love, lies at one periphery of thy heart.
                        
Thou hast carried it against all the trouble storms and protected these long years. Each day, thou hast tirelessly worked to give the very harmony to this garden of thine.

That's how all the flowers have come to bloom of their own each, so bright and fragrant.

As the very petals of mine have touched upon  
Thy majestic hands, it gave me the endless birth of pride at heart.

How fortunate am I to be grown
Upon this garden of thine!

Each morning, I awaken not just to bloom  but to offer thee my fragrance in humble devotion, for thy timeless love and care.

VII.
At this age of thy oldness, my grandfather, as I touch thy supreme hands, these intangible eyes of my
heart
break down in tears of adoration.

It is because of thy grandfatherly love and countless deeds that I offer these words to thee—words from my heart,
Long hidden and unslipped from the edge of my lips until this very day.

Knowest thou the time before the break of ****** dawn?

Getting up as early as four, walking upon the harsh meadow
Enshrouded in thick dew, fetching
water from far away,
Bearing the cold touch of winter’s breeze—two jerkins full,
Thy hands heavy, no torch, only the grace of the rich moonlight to guide
thy way.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least helped thee carry one.

Boiling the water warm for our washing,
Cooking a rather-delicious breakfast,
Helping us wear the gho, neat and clean,
Then walking us all the way to school—on foot.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least walked to school myself.

Thou didst celebrate the pain of love
in silence—like a man of supremacy.
All the days,
Tirelessly sweating and soaking
In another’s field,
Earning a petty ransom
For our welfare and school stationeries.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least worked myself, and taken care of my needs.

Bearing a body heavy with tiredness,
Yet walking
To the school gate—wearing a torn jacket,
Folding thy wounded arms tight,
And waiting, alone,
Through the slow passage of time
Till the school hour passed.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least returned home by myself.

I wonder—How thou didst pass half
of thy life with us! Taking care of us
All days, a ll nights—
Living in that small, ill-thatched camp
That wast never kind to thee.
But by the virtue of thy presence,
Day and night, we have grown—
Healthy,
Untroubled, and blessed to this very day.

 VIII.
In this fragile land abide thy coy footprints, unwithered still;
And it seemeth to me
That the sweat thou didst shed
Lingereth there— a sacred trace.

I recall thy wounded hands,
Healed only through the blisters’
pain.
Each day thou toiled in the field,
Ploughing beneath the
scorching sun,
Cutting down the wild grass,
Feeding the herd,
And walking to the moorish hill
In search of firewood.

Alas! No slippers on thy feet,
Yet thou didst endure
The sting of nettle and stone.
Indeed, thou never faltered,
Never failed to carry out thy labours.
Each moment thou didst
touch
Turned hallowed in thy hands.

In thine eyes have I grown to this
age.
With thee, I shared my joy and
love—and from thee
I learnt to endure, to labour with
silence, to suffer with dignity.

Though I have walked through pain,
It is thy constant guidance
That shaped my every lesson.
Thou didst make of me a master in my youth—
Early crowned by thy example.
I must ever regard thy fatherly companionship,
Thy quiet mastery, which taught
more than words could speak.

Today, I behold thee changed.
The weight of years hath
overshadowed
Thy once-wandering strength—
Yet the fire within
Still burneth bright, unfading in thy heart.

Yea, even now, I see thee labouring—
Despite thy oldness,
Despite the burden of time.
And all that I am today, all that I live,
is built upon
Thy endless toil and tenacity.

 IX.
The only heaven that ever hath
revealed its glory
unto mine eyes is thee,
My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

Thou art to me a gentle
companion, and all the endless
remembrances that I
carry in one chamber of my  heart
Have grown and stirred
since my youth,
Wherein I played amid  thy
boundless
fields and ways. My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

I know, when time did arrest
my step,
I left thee, and thou didst
weep in
voiceless grief
For many moons.
Yet surely, I too mourned for it,
For that parting was my
folly.
My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

O’er the steady tide of passing
months,
A wearisome disquiet did cloak
the very
soil of mine heart,
Vexing me often, tempting my
hand to
weave strange threads upon
the loom of
memory.
Thy mystic love did ebb and stir
within me
In silent utterance.

All the visions that glistened
before mine
eyes were but images of the
fragile land
that bore me—thy gentle
mountains,
Thy hollows and streams that
oft did catch
my gaze, and the bright, laughing
dwellers
that peopled thy plains. Yea, the
sweetness
of thy fruits and the pure waters
that once
touched my lips
Have haunted my very sense
of taste.

And now, all my griefs have come to rest.
For I have returned—
And in thy majesty shall I lose
myself again.
My dear patria! How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

 X.
In thine sweet farewell, my beloved teachers,
Mine eyes break forth in tears
Of silent grief—
For our years of flowery union
In this school have
faded with the passage of time.

Our teacher-student love was deeply and utterly rooted
Beneath the very substratum of hearts—
Unseen,
Yet surely felt, a joy relished in silence.

We cherished our days through
learning and shared experience.
Together, we rushed against
the stony trials,
The vicissitudes of life, and thrived beneath
The gracious light of education.

Yea, even in our mischiefs, ye were
the gentle hands that bore our faults
And shaped our spirits—
Upholding our failings, guiding us forth
With the rich ornaments of discipline.

Thou treated us well, indeed, like
thine own sons and daughters.
Thy scoldings,
Sharp for our undone labors,
Were rightly given—else how
might we have ripened to reap
the sweet fruit of this noble academy?

Thus shall we remember
Thy unwavering care,
Thy steadfast mentorship
Bestowed upon us
All throughout our stay.
The light thou didst reveal—
Though once veiled—
Now shines upon our skies,
To guide us on through the
long passage of life.

But more than all, the sweet
fragrance of love,
That ever sweetened our young
days,
Came from the garden
Of thine own hearts.
And that scent, it shall haunt
us evermore. I claim it so.

With this, I pen off And I do pray
These humble verses reach thee, someday.

Fare thee well, to all my kingly and queenly teachers. And know this truth:
It is uneasy in my heart to leave thy kingdom to its lonesome.
                            
XI.
O monk, how worthy is thy
long-sleeved robe—
Wide and dark,
Saffroned with solemn grace.
I, the lone wayfarer,
Do walk to thy quiet temple,
To seek thy blessing
in silence.
Wouldst thou lead me in?

For I bear no sin, nor scorn
within my heart.
I have withered the hues of
both,
Faded them to a glanceless
colour. O monk,
Before thou leadest me
within,
Let me not forget to bow
my whole
body at thy sacred feet.

Thou, at the edge of thine altar
hall, dost grant me the warm
floor
To rest this weary frame.
Thou takest out thy prayer
beads, ready to chant
Thy songs and sacred words.

O monk, shall I join thee in
voice, or sit in silence,
My mouth sealed in listening?
Ah—such is thy presence.
And thy costless
bliss, thy love and nobility,
Are divine gifts
That I ever seek to reach.

Thou offerest millions of
butter-lamps for me,
And for all kindred beings,
Here and across this
din-filled world.
And when I depart from
this place, let me not
forget
To extend my deepest
gratitude—together
with holy reverence.

XII.
'Tis thy mystic lamp that doth cast its immortal light of love upon our firmament. It is our pride to adorn our lives with the bright ornaments of gladness—woven in the garden of thy heart.

O Noble Majesty! Upon this humble shore of the boundless sea, we dwell in the harmony of unity. The fruits of joy are reaped across our fields by the sharp and subtle song of thy love.

Thou art the divine musician, whose realm is founded upon the reed-bed of melody. Sweet stillness maketh her abode within the halls of thy flute, and along the trembling strings of thy harp.

These mortal lives do dance, moving in accord with thy celestial strains; and our hearts stretch forth their wings of reverence, to bow low and touch thy feet with most faithful love and devotion.

XIII.
It's my pride to adorn these crown jewels of flowers to my heart, woven along the gardens of my life.

O, love of my life! Thou hast shone through the mirrors of tears. Thou hast shone through the strange vales of fears. And thou hast shone through the dissonant melody of death's flute.

O, love of my life! I never knew that it was thee and thy love. When thou camest by the threshold of my door, I scorned thee. And when thou camest by myside and toucheth upon me, I cursed thee.

O, love of my life! Yet still thou left me not. Thou hast given me a vortex of strength at heart to break through and against all barriers that bound my way. Thou hast given myriad births to smile upon my face to withstand grief and anger that come by flood of mob deeds.

O, love of my life! I never
knew that it was all thy mystic gifts of fragrance came from
the flowers of thine own heart. When I realise today, ah, it was thee and its endless love. Now, the only assurance that bursts before my mouth is speech of gratitude— with love
and reverence, in return.

XIV.
Beloved motherland,— I beseech thee, shed not thy tears when I do take my leave for evermore,
departing from thy fair and hallowed soil. A garden near to paradise,
adorn’d with a thousand hues of blooming grace, and an immortal sea of sweet perfume,
wherein I did steep mine heart with pride,— for ne’er again shall I return.

Oft shall my soul yearn to lie upon thy tender *****,
yet the path that once led me home may vanish ‘fore mine eyes.
Thus must I pour forth the fullness of my thanks from the deep well of my heart,—
for thou wert beside me ere I knew the light,
abiding from dawn unto dusk, like a soft melody breathed upon the reed.

Ah,— when first I didst draw breath within thy bounds, I came with empty hand,
bare of limb and soul alike, and knew not shame.
I was a stranger to mine own visage, beholding my self within thy mirror.
A lonely thing was I,— lost amid the hush,
possessing naught, and known by none.
The first breath thou gav’st me to draw
was thy garden’s own sweet incense.

The first draught thou didst bestow
was milk from thy *****,— rich as wine to mine infant lips.
And the first shelter thou offeredst for my rest
were the warm folds of thy lap.
Blessed am I, that I was born beneath thy queenly love.
How, then, can I bear to depart,
and leave thee lone behind?

Yet know this, sweet mother,— my life is no eternal hymn
that lingers ‘twixt the stars, echoing o’er thy skies.
What rendeth us asunder is Time’s relentless hand. I pray thee, weep not,—
for I may not flee his dark and fated gaze.