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.

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.

Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house-do not pass by like a dream.

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.