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1 Senlin sat before us and we heard him. He smoked his pipe before us and we saw him. Was he small, with reddish hair, Did he light his pipe with a meditative stare And a twinkling flame reflected in blue eyes? 'I am alone': said Senlin; 'in a forest of leaves The single leaf that creeps and falls. The single blade of grass in a desert of grass That none foresaw and none recalls. The single shell that a green wave shatters In tiny specks of whiteness on brown sands . . . How shall you understand me with your hearts, Who cannot reach me with your hands? . . .' The city dissolves about us, and its walls Are the sands beside a sea. We plunge in a chaos of dunes, white waves before us Crash on kelp tumultuously, Gulls wheel over foam, the clouds blow tattered, The sun is swallowed . . . Has Senlin become a shore? Is Senlin a grain of sand beneath our footsteps, A speck of shell upon which waves will roar? . . . Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . no answer, Only the crash of sea on a shell-white shore. Yet, we would say, this is no shore at all, But a small bright room with lamplight on the wall; And the familiar chair Where Senlin sat, with lamplight on his hair. 2 Senlin, alone before us, played a music. Was it himself he played? . . . We sat and listened, Perplexed and pleased and tired. 'Listen!' he said, 'and you will learn a secret-- Though it is not the secret you desired. I have not found a meaning that will praise you! Out of the heart of silence comes this music, Quietly speaks and dies. Look! there is one white star above black houses! And a tiny man who climbs toward the skies! Where does he walk to? What does he leave behind him? What was his foolish name? What did he stop to say, before he left you As simply as he came? "Death?" did it sound like, "love and god, and laughter, Sunlight, and work, and pain . . .?" No--it appears to me that these were symbols Of simple truths he found no way to explain. He spoke, but found you could not understand him-- You were alone, and he was alone. "He sought to touch you, and found he could not reach you,-- He sought to understand you, and could not hear you. And so this music, which I play before you,-- Does it mean only what it seems to mean? Or is it a dance of foolish waves in sunlight Above a desperate depth of things unseen? Listen! Do you not hear the singing voices Out of the darkness of this sea? But no: you cannot hear them; for if you heard them You would have heard and captured me. Yet I am here, talking of laughter. Laughter and love and work and god; As I shall talk of these same things hereafter In wave and sod. Walk on a hill and call me: "Senlin! . . . Senlin! . . ." Will I not answer you as clearly as now? Listen to rain, and you will hear me speaking. Look for my heart in the breaking of a bough . . .' 3 Senlin stood before us in the sunlight, And laughed, and walked away. Did no one see him leaving the doors of the city, Looking behind him, as if he wished to stay? Has no one, in the forests of the evening, Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown? For somewhere, in the worlds-in-worlds about us, He changes still, unfriended and alone. Is he the star on which we walk at daybreak, The light that blinds our eyes? 'Senlin!' we cry. 'Senlin!' again . . . no answer: Only the soulless brilliance of blue skies. Yet we would say, this was no man at all, But a dream we dreamed, and vividly recall; And we are mad to walk in wind and rain Hoping to find, somewhere, that dream again.

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