So let us pretend to live without fear; for what tomorrow will
Bring we can do little for but sing, as a songbird would, at the rising Sun then blink to try to clear the blur which comes from a night of Songbird’s dreams; a dark and darker night which seems more real Than the nest on which he spills the mourning raindrops of a
Deep night’s breath then quivers; or, are those sounds the
Dying shivers which one hears overnight when awakened by a Nightmare’s gasp at life?
The songbird’s nightmare is a sash which overhangs the joy
And, unlike a spoiled child who has lost his favorite toy,
He see’s the rising sun and perches up to sing
For he has lived another way and despite the dark
Is inspired by a golden light burning, as it were:
A day, a day, a day.