This One Whom Habit Of Memory Propels

This One Whom Habit Of Memory Propels To The Ground Of His Making, Sleeper Only The Mortal Sounds Can Sing Awake, This Blessing Love Gives Again Into Our Arms.

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower

I Start Off But I Don't Know Where I'm Going; I Try This Avenue And That Avenue, That Turns Out To Be A Dead End, This Is A Dead End, And So On. The Search Takes A Long Time And I Have To Back-track Often.

It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness, To Put A Hand On Its Brow Of The Flower And Retell It In Words And In Touch It Is Lovely Until It Flowers Again From Within, Of Self-blessing.

I Have Always Intended To Live Forever; But Not Until Now, To Live Now.