THE SKY SETS no snare to capture the moon, it is her own freedom which binds her. The light that fills the sky seeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass.
MY GUEST HAS come to my door in this autumn morning. Sing, my heart, sing thy welcome! Make thy song the song of the sunlit blue, of the dew-damp air, of the lavish gold of harvest fields, of the laughter of the loud water. Or stand mute before him for awhile gazing at his face; Then leave thy house and go out with him in silence.