  4. The Joy of Writing Writing is in itself a joy, Yet saints and sages have long since held it in awe. For it is being, created from a void; It is sound rung out of profound silence. In a sheet of paper is contained the infinite, And, evolved from an inch-sized heart, an endless panorama. The words, as they expand, become all-evocative, The thought, still further pursued, will run the deeper. Till flowers in full blossom exhale all-pervading fragrance, and tender boughs, their saps running, grow in a whole jungle of splendor. Bright winds spread luminous wings, quick breezes soar from the earth, and clouds arise from the writing brushes. 
