Sometimes

Sometimes when a bird cries out,

or the wind sweeps through a tree,

or a dog howls in a far-off farm,

I hold still and listen a long time.
My world turns and goes back to the place

where, a thousand forgotten years ago,

the bird and the blowing wind

were like me, and were my brothers.
My soul turns into a tree,
and an animal, and a cloud bank.

Then changed and odd it came home

and asks me questions. What should I reply?
  
 -- Herman Hesse, Swiss poet and novelist