Is that your call again?
The evening has come.  Weariness clings around me like the arms of entreating love.
Do you call me?
 
I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob me of my night?
Somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of the dark is one’s own.
Must your voice cut through it and smite me?
 
Has the evening no music of sleep at your gate?
Do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your pitiless tower?
Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your garden?
 
Must you call me, you unquiet one?
Then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep.
Let the lamp burn in the lonely house.
Let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home.
I leave behind my dreams and I hasten to your call.

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The gardener
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