What good are noble words from a vain heart?
You desire truth in the inward parts.

O, stubborn heart! Thou harkest not to Wisdom's words;
and forsooth,
for thou hast been inclined to death ever since thy youth.

Wherefore have I life if kind I cannot be?
If love have not I, divide my breath from me.

Morning steps out in her gilded gown.

Mere silence, too, could be
a melancholic melody.

I'm made of lead
as I'm laid in bed,
heavy-laden.

Death, whose guise is end to sorrow,
sells salvation 'til tomorrow.

My hands move like water over lily pads white and black,
above keys that agree with the notes of a mental track.
I'm pulled by a rhythm forward and back.
I lose myself in a euphonic lilac.

I drown when I divert from love,
dragged into a crushing depth;
and lo, the way whereon I trod—
one whose gate is wide and broad—
does lead me unto certain death.

The quickness of rage—
that murderous blight—
discards self-control
for counterfeit might.