A bird half wakened in the lunar noonSang halfway through its little inborn tune.

I'll never wake up in a good mood again. I'm tired of these stinky boots.

In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height. In the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth.

In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeams, and the stars of midnight.

The same stream of life that runs through the world runs through my veins night and day.

Some day I shall sing to thee in the sunrise of some other world, I have seen thee before in the light of the earth, in the love of man.