Our door was shut to the noon-day heat. We could not see him. We might not have heard him either— Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly. But his step was tremendous— Are mountains on the march? He was no man who passed; But a great faithful horse Dragging a load Up the hill.
Alfred Kreymborg - 1883-1966
Who would decry instruments— when grasses ever so fragile, provide strings stout enough for insect moods to glide up and down in glissandos of toes along wires or finger-tips on zithers— though the mere sounds be theirs, not ours— theirs, not ours, the first inspiration— discord without resolution— who would cry being loved, when even such tinkling comes of the loving?