Dark clouds become heaven's flowers when kissed by light.

We manage to swallow flesh, only because we do not think of the cruel and sinful thing we do.

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.

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

And, indeed, what little of beauty and peace is to be found in the societies of men is owing to the daily performance of small duties, not to big doings and fine talk.

In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan.

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