এই পাতাটির মুদ্রণ সংশোধন করা হয়েছে, কিন্তু বৈধকরণ করা হয়নি।
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 life's deafness.
The mountain fir keeps hidden
the memory of its struggle with the storm
murmuring in its rustling boughs
a hymn of peace.
God honoured me with his fight
when I was rebellious
he ignored me when I was languid.
The man proud of his sect
thinks that he has the sea
ladled into his private pond.
Life sends up in blades of grass
its silent hymn of praise to the unnamed
Light.
True end is not in the reaching of the limit
but in a completion which is limitless.
