Music is the purest form of art... therefore true poets...seek to express the universe in terms of music. The singer has everything within him. The notes come out from his very life. They are not materials gathered from outside.

It is the same life that emerges in joy through the dust of the earth into numberless waves of flower.

A butterfly flitting from flower to flower ever remains mine, I lose the one that is netted by me.

God waits to win back his own flowers as gifts from man's hands.

Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave. The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.

Man's abiding happiness is not in getting anything but in giving himself up to what is greater than himself, to ideas which are larger than his individual life, the idea of his country, of humanity, of God.

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