Where Words Cease, There Music Begins.

This Was But A Prelude; Where Books Are Burnt Human-beings Will Be Burnt In The End

Sweet May Hath Come To Love Us, Flowers, Trees, Their Blossoms Don; And Through The Blue Heavens Above Us The Very Clouds Move On.

Glow-worms On The Ground Are Moving, As If In The Torch-dance Circling.

The Spring's Already At The Gate With Looks My Care Beguiling; The Country Round Appeareth Straight A Flower-garden Smiling.

My Heart Resembles The Ocean; Has Storm, And Ebb And Flow; And Many A Beautiful Pearl Lies Hid In Its Depths Below.