And he raised his head Looked down upon the people His great voice said When love beckons, follow Though the path sometimes seems steep and hard Be old and let the soft wings enfold you Though the sword hidden among the pinion may cut deep When the voice speaks to you believe For the voice may shatter your dreams As the north wind lays waste to the garden For as love is your growth, so it is your pruning As it ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun So it shall descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth All these things shall love do unto you As you may know your secrets of the heart And in that knowledge become a fragment of life's heart Go into the seasonless world Where you laugh not all you laughter and weep not all your tears For love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself Think not you can direct the course of love For if it finds you worthy will direct your course Love has no desire but to fulfil itself To melt and be like a running brook
Games We Play II:
AntwortenLöschenAnd he raised his head
Looked down upon the people
His great voice said
When love beckons, follow
Though the path sometimes seems
steep and hard
Be old and let the soft wings
enfold you
Though the sword hidden among
the pinion may cut deep
When the voice speaks to you believe
For the voice may shatter your dreams
As the north wind lays waste
to the garden
For as love is your growth, so it is
your pruning
As it ascends to your height and
caresses your tenderest branches that
quiver in the sun
So it shall descend to your roots
and shake them in their clinging
to the earth
All these things shall love do
unto you
As you may know your secrets
of the heart
And in that knowledge become a fragment
of life's heart
Go into the seasonless world
Where you laugh not all you laughter
and weep not all your tears
For love gives naught but itself
and takes naught but from itself
Think not you can direct the course
of love
For if it finds you worthy will
direct your course
Love has no desire but to fulfil itself
To melt and be like a running brook