Why who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know nothing else but miracles, whether they be animals feeding in the fields, Or, birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me, miracles.

Are you the new person drawn toward me? To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose.

I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, And accrue what I hear into myself...and let sound contribute toward me.

I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.

I love doctors and hate their medicine.

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them