His own mornings are new surprises to God.
Life finds its wealth by the claims of the world, and its worth
by the claims of love.
The dry river-bed finds no thanks for its past.
The bird wishes it were a cloud.
The cloud wishes it were a bird.
The waterfall sing, "I find my song, when I find my freedom."
I cannot tell why this heart languishes in silence.
It is for small needs it never asks, or knows or remembers.
Woman, when you move about in your household service your limbs sing
like a hill stream among its pebbles.
The sun goes to cross the Western sea, leaving its last salutation
to the East.