I sit at my window this morning where the world like a passer-by stops
for a moment, nods to me and goes.
There little thoughts are the rustle of leaves; they have their
whisper of joy in my mind.
What you are you do not see, what you see is your shadow.
My wishes are fools, they shout across thy song, my Master.
Let me but listen.
I cannot choose the best.
The best chooses me.
They throw their shadows before them who carry their lantern on
their back.
That I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life.
We, the rustling leaves, have a voice that answers the storms,
but who are you so silent?"
I am a mere flower.
Rest belongs to the work as the eyelids to the eyes.
Man is a born child, his power is the power of growth.
God expects answers for the flowers he sends us, not for the sun
the earth.