I list to a call more ancient than art or form.
I feel the raindrop and the ray of sun.
I cannot check my impulse to feel.
The substance of my feelings are not altogether clear to me.
Their structure is not always open to my investigation.
A gust of wind conveys to me a longing,
and a certain music composes me,
but I cannot say why.
My soul existed prior to any of my other acquisitions.
I like and dislike spontaneously.
The soul either welcomes or rejects whatever strikes it instantaneously.
The determination is no more mine
than is the decision of my heart to beat.
I cannot help what I like or feel.
My power is limited to extent and quality.
I can be the best me possible,
or I can aggravate myself
by continually going in opposition to my instincts.