Not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water, sings the pebbles into perfection.

I leave no trace of wings in the air, but I am glad I have had my flight.

My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.

To the guests that must go, bid God's speed and brush away all traces of their steps.

The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.

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