Just as the little things, too little to be known, are what make up the whole of things, just so, no one can know. It can be felt, it can be guessed, but who can grasp the truth? Just images, I give my best, I hope I speak what’s true. I do not say why the whole earth has held me up till now, nor why the sky’s immeasured dome has danced through day and night.
Yet walk I must in mysteries, and sing with birds to please. All things so small within, they tend—I cannot see what’s me.
Tale Told 