TO THE BIRDS you gave songs, the birds gave you songs in return. You gave me only voice, yet asked for more, and I sing. You made your winds light and they are fleet in their service. You burdened my hands that I myself may lighten them, and at last, gain unburdened freedom for your service. You created your Earth filling its shadows with fragments of light. There you paused; you left me empty-handed in the dust to create your heaven. To all things else you give; from me you ask. The harvest of my life ripens in the sun and the shower till I reap more than you sowed, gladdening your heart, 0 Master of the golden granary.
LET ALL THE strains of joy mingle in my last song-the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word.
