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LXXX
I amlike a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly
roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet
melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count
months and years separated from thee.
If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take
thisfieeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with
gold,fioat it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.
And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I
shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of
the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent.
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