As the Moon rose and the hour grew late, The day help on a Coconut estate raked up the dry leaves that fell dead from the trees, Which they burned in a pile by the lake. The Beetle King summoned his men, and from the top of the Rhododendron stem: "Calling all volunteers who can carry back here, the Great Mystery's been lit once again."

I wrote a little song for you With a melody I'd borrowed put to words that didn't rhyme To repeat what you already knew; As the stones thrown at your window tapped in syncopation, You kept a distance out of fear you'd break, But what good's a single windchime, hanging quiet all alone?

You've got it all turned upside-down. Does the rain that's sent each spring anew to fall on her not fall on you? You project on her your inward scenes, she's a blank, external movie screen. But the One who looks out from your eyes looks through hers and through mine.