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This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

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I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.

Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.

My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

Oh, grant me my prayer, that I may never lose the touch of the one in the play of the many.

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.