“Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:It listens, listens. Taller trees beyondListen. The moon at the unruffled pondStares. And you sing, you sing.That star-enchanted song falls through the airFrom lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;And all the night you sing.My dreams are flowers to which you are a beeAs all night long I listen, and my brainReceives your song, then loses it againIn moonlight on the lawn.Now is your voice a marble high and white,Then like a mist on fields of paradise,Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,Then breaks, and it is dawn.”

“At two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and listen,You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun.And the trees in the Shadow rustle and the trees in the moonlight glisten,And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is done.”

“Far away beyond the pine-woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.”

“listen to me as one listens to the rain,the years go by, the moments return,do you hear the footsteps in the next room?not here, not there: you hear themin another time that is now,listen to the footsteps of time,inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,listen to the rain running over the terrace,the night is now more night in the grove,lightning has nestled among the leaves,a restless garden adrift-go in,your shadow covers this page.”

“Thinking of you is pretty, hopeful, It is like listening to the most beautiful song From the most beautiful voice on earth... But hope is not enough for me any more, I don't want to listen to songs any more, I want to sing.”

“Do you remember the suburbs and the plaintive flock of landscapes The cypress trees projected their shadows under the moon That night when as summer waned I listened To a languorous bird forever wrothAnd the eternal noise of a river wide and dark(The Voyager)”