There were no songs, just pure, plain notes,
half heard in the mote of mind-blind sleep;
that sigh eyed space 'twixt dreams of a realm
hope grasps as rod, at new day break.
As if to raise the glance of dawn,
spring Sky Lark calls; hear out its trill,
keen thrill of life; now wake, weep, shake a leg,
bound from dank bed, to write fresh scores of love.
Spin thought on page, spread sparse as jam
on thin cut bread; a dry crust chokes, but sweet,
may stoke fond hearts to beat in time,
with you, dear God.
