To the birds you gave songs, the birds gave you songs in return. You gave me only a voice, yet asked for more, thus I sing.

We can make a little order where we are, and then the big sweep of history on which we can have no effect doesn't overwhelm us. We do it with colors, with a garden, with the furnishings of a room, or with sounds and words. We make a little form, and we gain composure.

I sit at my window gazing The world passes by, nods to me And is gone.

In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height. In the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth.

The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history.

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