To spartan prose the years are turning,
Coquettish rhyme the years are spurning;
And I - I with a sigh confess -
I'm running after her much less,
My pen has lost its former pleasures
Of daubing fleeting leaves, it seems,
Today, quite different, chilling dreams;
Quite different unrelenting pressures,
In stillness or in social noise,
Disturb the sleep my soul enjoys.

How intense can be the longing to escape from the emptiness and dullness of human verbosity, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labour, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!

Who goes there?
Who tries to enter this sepulchre?
How did you make your way inside?
I built my castle on the highest mountains,
I built walls around it so great that no being could pierce them,
I hid my heart in the most complex of vaults,
How did you get here?
Did you fly in with the wind,
Or did the moon bring you in?
Did the stream carry you,
Or did you outshine the sun and he let you enter?
How did you get past the tempest outside?

Who are you?
Why do you wish to tread the world of  shadows?
There's nothing here to see but the weeping souls of the exhausted thought...

The wind roars
The sky is patched with clouds
The leaves swirl in the wind's embrace

Art is a statement about life's truths.

I want to fly into the skies,
like nightingales
and rest on roses
with my tender being.
Now my mind lies
on each leaf,
like shadows do in the summer.

If I could only tell
all my worries to myself,
because I am chained to tiredness,
and so cannot talk,
let alone sing about them.

We often ask ourselves "why can't they see it the way we do? Why is it that that they can't adjust themselves to think like me, even if only for an hour?" And so we get disappointed in everyone, we think them fools and not once try to see things as they see it, not once do we try to think the way they do and thus we shall never understand why it is that they don't understand.