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.

God waits to win back his own flowers as gifts from man's hands.

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

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

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