I worshipped dead men for their strength, Forgetting I was strong.
Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, / For every bee becomes a drunken lover, / Standing upon his head to sup the flowers.
Tools have their own integrity.
The Saluki is a marvel of elegance.
There's no beginning to the farmer's year, / Only recurrent patterns on a scroll / Unwinding...
A flowerless room is a soulless room, to my way of thinking; but even a solitary little vase of a living flower may redeem it.