Sorrow is hushed into peace in my heart like the evening among the silent trees. Some unseen fingers, like an idle breeze, are playing upon my heart the music of the ripples.
A hundred years hence What young poet Sings songs in your homes! For him I send my tidings of joy of this spring. Let it echo for a moment In your spring, in your heartbeats, In the humming of the bees In the rustling of the leaves A hundred years hence.