I leave no trace of wings in the air, but I am glad I have had my flight.
The fireflies, twinkling among leaves, make the stars wonder.
The mountain remains unmoved at its seeming defeat by the mist.
While the rose said to the sun, "I shall ever remember thee," her petals fell to the dust.
Hills are the earth's gesture of despair for the unreachable.
Though the thorn in thy flower pricked me, O Beauty, I am grateful.
The world knows that the few are more than the many.
Let not my love be a burden on you, my friend, know that it pays itself.
Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness, and is content to vanish when the sun comes out.
Beauty is truth's smile when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror.
From Fireflies by Rabindranath Tagore (1928)