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.

Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord.

Days are coloured bubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless nights.

Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.

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