MY SONGS ARE like bees; they follow through the air some fragrant trace-some memory-of you, to hum around your shyness, eager for its hidden store.
        When the freshness of dawn droops in the sun, when in the noon the air hangs low with heaviness and the forest is silent, my songs return home, their languid wings dusted with gold.

THAT I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life.

I SHALL NOT wait and watch in the house for thy coming,
but will go forth into the open,
for the petals fall from the drooping flowers and time flies to its end.
The wind is up, the water is ruffled.
Be swift and cut the rope,
let the boat drift in the midstream, for the time flies to its end.
The night is pale, the lonely moon is playing its ferry of dreams
across the sky.
The path is unknown, but I heed it not.
My mind has the wings of freedom
and I know that I shall cross the dark.
Let me but start on my journey, for the time flies to its end.