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.

Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

The trees come up to my window like the yearning voice of the dumb earth.

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.

Every poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world.