Others make verses of grace.
Mine are all muscle and sinew.
Others can picture your face.
But I all the tumult within you.
Others can give you delight,
And delight I confess is worth giving.
But my songs must tickle and bite
And burn with the ardor of living
The ghost of night's long hours depart
In congregation dreary,
And leave my sorrow-trampled heart
But Chirpings bright in dewy woods
Foretell divine tomorrows,
And little birds are very good
To dissipate great sorrows.