Fame is but a fruit tree- so very unsound. It can never flourish 'till its stock is in the ground.
I woke early like a condemned man to the naivety of birdsong.
Do you like what you're doing/would you do it some more/or will you stop once and wonder what you're doing it for?
If you would and you could brighten my northern sky.
And see she flies, and she is everywhere.
Time has told me not to ask for more, someday our ocean will find its shore.