At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

All that is not given is lost.

The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom, and yet keep it for himself.

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

Work, especially good work, becomes easy only when desire has learnt to discipline itself.

Let it not be death but completeness. Let love melt into memory and pain into songs. Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest. Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night. Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.

My heart, the bird of the wilderness, has found its sky in your eyes. They are the cradle of the morning, they are the kingdom of the stars. My songs are lost in their depths. Let me but soar in that sky, in its lonely immensity. Let me but cleave its clouds and spread wings in its sunshine.