Moonsongs I made you,
from lightning and rain;
and small laughing stanzas
shaped out of pain.
Fountains I gave you,
from deserts of stone;
and windbells and chiming,
from dark fears alone.
Birdflutes I sent you,
from threatening air;
and blossoming lyrics,
that stripped my strength bare.
What more is wanted,
that you be made glad?
What is there left me
that you have not had?
p. 33
