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

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

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

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

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.

By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.