Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.
The soil in return for her service
keeps the tree tied to her,
the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.
The spirit of death is one,
the spirit of life is many.
When God is dead religion becomes one.
The tree bears its thousand years
as one large majestic moment.
Its store of snow is the hill’s own burden,
its outpouring of streams is borne by all the world.
Listen to the prayer of the forest
for its freedom in flowers.
Let your love see me
even through the barrier of nearness.
The spirit of work in creation is there
to carry and help the spirit of play.
To carry the burden of the instrument,
count the cost of its material,
and never to know that it is for music,
is the tragedy of deaf life.
Faith is the bird that feels the light
and sings when the dawn is still dark.
I bring to thee, night, my day’s empty cup,
to be cleansed with thy cool darkness
for a new morning’s festival.
The mountain fir, in its rustling,
modulates the memory of its fights with the storm
into a hymn of peace.