Overdraw Me, Lord, And Who

What Happiness This Is: To Fly, Skimming Over The Earth Just As We Do In Our Dreams! Life Has Become A Dream. Can This Be The Meaning Of Paradise?

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

When I Encounter A Sunrise, A Painting, A Woman, Or An Idea That Makes My Heart Bound Like A Young Calf, Then I Know I Am Standing In Front Of Happiness.

You Have Your Brush, You Have Your Colors, You Paint The Paradise, Then In You Go.

I Was Happy, I Knew That. While Experiencing Happiness, We Have Difficulty In Being Conscious Of It. Only When The Happiness Is Past And We Look Back On It Do We Suddenly Realize - Sometimes With Astonishment - How Happy We Had Been.