so many echoes in the rain
leave nothing of our vision clear
but when we breathe the morning air

the feeling's fresh the scent is plain
to all who notice yet we hear
so many echoes in the rain

that every ordinary brain
is forced into a deep despair
at oaths that we are forced to swear
so many echoes in the rain

we did not know all that the words have said
in the dead past and what was on the wall
vivid in sunlight is now past recall
but not all meanings dwell amongst the dead
waiting for better times and less cold dread
to illustrate the human rise and fall
of hearts that circulate and do not stall
but pain and narrowness stay in the head
that was a different and a better mind
possessed by those who sought to build our hope
in concrete forms and who not thinking stealth
in any way a virtue felt the kind
were more equipped for climbing the long *****
towards a place where all would share the wealth

we make our choices with honest conviction
and are persuaded that an angry curse
is just a matter for some plangent verse
or else results from sloppy bad male diction
all our desire is life with little friction
and we can't understand how the converse
happens how all our actions make things worse
just why the happy ending's only fiction
to tell this story would take me too long
so it must be cut short and that's a shame
since all the world is hanging on the tale
still all in all what hurts makes us more strong
and better able soon to win the game
while early victors in the end must fail

behind the house we see the jonquils blow
in the mild air when winter seems a lie
it is the time for all good things to grow

outside the breezes do not cease to flow
and clouds are scudding grey across the sky
behind the house we see the jonquils blow

so clearly yellow do those flowers show
they banish dullness and we can descry
it is the time for all good things to grow

life is so eager to get up and go
so energetic it could almost fly
behind the house we see the jonquils blow

returning from their sleep as if they know
we long for colour to delight each eye
it is the time for all good things to grow

in proper order this is nature's show
we only guide it then we smile and sigh
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
it is the time for all good things to grow

frogs croaking through the night even in cold
february so rustically loud
you feel immersed within a chanting crowd
and yet the sound itself does not grow old
the singers do not seem to be consoled
but croak majestically clear and proud
this is their world they won't be disallowed
by sleepy humans none of whom are bold
to say all this is merely to record
last night's concerto in the nearby pond
as one more sign of nature undismayed
by all we do for my part i just snored
dreamt of strange worlds and places far beyond
my normal life then woke to mundane trade

there are no answers coming in the night
nor clarity in morning that is why
we seek for explanations on the fly
in earnest wish for ending of our plight
but nothing comes there is no vivid sight
all's grey and dullness settles on each eye
there's no firm sanity we can espy
the universe seems ordered by mere spite
when we were children we were told that cause
and effect followed by a straight decree
of nature's and the world was really plain
to adult eyes but now we have no laws
to follow and we find we are not free
since those who want to lead us are insane

so many orders of which none matter
in this harsh place where all words come to fail
in giddy smoke and stinking horses' stale

it seems that all our urges need to shatter
because we have not found the proper scale
so many orders of which none matter

but many fools who do not cease to flatter
yet will not stoop to help us when we ail
nor build a roof to shelter from the hail
so many orders of which none matter