Be it sight, sound, smell, or touch

There's something inside, that we need so much

The sight of a touch, or the scent of a sound

Or the strength of an oak, with roots deep in the ground

The wonder of flowers, to be covered, and then to burst up

Through tarmac, to the sun again, or to fly to the sun

Without burning a wing; to lie in a meadow

And hear the grass sing; to have all these things

In our memory's hoard, and to use them

To help us, to find [the Lost Chord]