XV

Worse than winter is spring If I come not to sight of my king: But then what a spring will it be When my king takes homage of me!

I send his grace from afar Homage, as though to a star; As a shepherd whose flock takes flight May worship a star by night.

As a flock that a wolf is upon My songs take flight and are gone: No heart is in any to sing Aught but the praise of my king.

Fain would I once and again Sing deeds and passions of men: But ever a child's head gleams Between my work and my dreams.

Between my hand and my eyes The lines of a small face rise, And the lines I trace and retrace Are none but those of the face.