Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

Anything I can sing, I call a song. Anything I can't sing, I call a poem.

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.

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

I have spent many days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung.

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.