Nothing is so far as truth—
nothing is so plain to see.
Look where light has married earth
through the green leaves on the tree.
Nothing is so hard as love—
love for which the wisest weep.
Yet the child who never looked
found it easily as his sleep.
Nothing is as strange as love—
love is like a foreign land.
Yet its natives find their way
natural as hand-in-hand.
Nothing is so bare as truth—
that lean geometry of thought;
but round its poles there congregate
all foliage, flowers and fruits of earth.
Oh, love and truth and I should meet,
sighed the man beneath the tree;
but where might our acquaintance be?
Between your hat and the soles of your feet,
sang the bird on top of the tree.
