THE FUGITIVE
9
Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.
7
I am like the night to you, little flower.
I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.
When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall leave you to a world a-hum with bees, and songful with birds.
My last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; it will make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on the pitiless mirth of day.
8
Do not stand before my window with those hungry eyes and beg for my secret. It is but a tiny stone of
