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.
