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.

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

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.

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

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