A mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it.
God loves man抯 lamp-lights better than his own great stars.
This world is the world of wild storms kept tame with the music of beauty.
My heart is like the golden basket of thy kiss, said the sunset cloud to the sun.
By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess
The cricket’s chirp and the patter of rain come to me through the dark, like the rustle of dreams from my past youth..
I have lost my dewdrop, Cries the flower to the morning sky that has lost all its stars.
The burning log bursts in flame and cries, —“This is my flower, my death.”
The wasp thinks that the honey-hive of the neighboring bees is too small.
His neighbours ask him to build one still smaller.
I cannot keep your waves, says the bank to the river, 搇et me keep your footprints in my heart.
The day, with the noise of this little earth, drowns the silence of all worlds.
The song feels the infinite in the air, the picture in the earth, the poem in the air and the earth; for its words have meaning that walks and music that soars.
When the sun goes down to the West, the East of his morning stands before him in silence.