Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

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

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.

Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these. She a window flower. And he a winter breeze.

And every one of them words rang true and glowed like burnin' coal. Pourin' off of every page, like it was written in my soul from me to you.