A bird flew up from the garden in which it had perched.

What did he add to the garden; what did he take from it? A feather he left in the garden a small white feather of memory which lay there for a while and then drifted away and was lost. A little dust he took from the garden, a little dust of desire which clung to his feet just enough slightly to retard his flight. That was all. I am that bird, and human life is that garden; and soon I shall fly away -----Arthur Weigall The Garden of Paradise