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

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.

In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan.

Plunge into the deep without fear, with the gladness of April in your heart.

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

Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?