Beauty, more than bitterness, makes the heart break.

Old love, old love, / How can I be true? / Shall I be faithless to myself / Or to you?

Though I know he loves me, tonight my heart is sad; his kiss was not so wonderful as all the dreams I had.

When I can look life in the eyes, grown calm and very coldly wise, life will have given me the truth, and taken in exchange - my youth.

With my singing I can make, a refuge for my spirit's sake; a house of shining words, to be my fragile immortality.

Call him wise whose actions, words, and steps are all a clear because to a clear why.

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.