NOT heat flames up and consumes,Not sea-waves hurry in and out,Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consum- ing, burning for his love whom I love,O none more than I hurrying in and out;Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the same,O nor down-balls nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds, are borne through the open air,Any more than my soul is borne through the open air,Wafted in all directions O love, for friendship, for you.