If ever a man, who saw the gentle Gifts given, freely, ripeness on branches, Fortunate blooms by the minuscule clover, Sun showers in the dances of the yellow Bees, wisdoms ringing in spirals of ancient Trees, a man might then be sorely moved As the crushing work a day world hushes His spirit, a man might dream of peace And not sail capsized by navy grey suit, Slogging in oceans of paper deadlines, In girding grids, grind of lonely streets, But know of graces in sauntered day, Hear the in-songs of long unsuffering Birds as they jaunt through the leaves, A spirit might wake into light and still Be dreaming and not limp wounded In step of site, petrified salt of job And unforgiven city, if ever a man Was a man, born in embodiment Of perpetual joys and not a toy Tossed by the hollow spirits Of the brood indifferent.