The sun does not shine for a few trees, and flowers, but for the wide world's joy. The lonely pine on the mountain-top waves its sombre boughs and cries, 'Thou art my sun. ' And the little meadow violet lifts its cup of blue, and whispers with its perfumed breath, 'Thou art my sun. ' And the grain in a thousand fields rustles in the wind, and makes answer, 'Thou art my sun. ' So God sits effulgent in heaven, not for a favored few, but for the universe of life; and there is no creature so poor or so low that he may not look up with childish confidence and say, 'My Father, Thou art mine.
I had really good hearing and when you're scared it gets heightened so you hear scratching noises or something.