In bondage of space,
Thou art not far from heaven,
The empyrean is not
Distant from thy earthly home.

That rose—embowered garden,
Immune from winter’s frost,
Is closer than it appears
To thy grief—stricken soul.

What the ways of the ascetic
Teach —is that all life
Is like a flying arrow,
Not far from the bow.

Thy reach is far above
The spheres of the moon and stars;
If thou but venturest forth,
The heavens are not too high.

On the tortuous path of love,
The traveller who knows,
May ask his guide to leave him,
To seek a lonely trail.