Sunday Mornings Poem by Hm. Nes

Had the music more of mystery
More than memory and of dreams
Had my feathers not so swiftly
Fallen, swiftly from my wings
Had we further run and fever
Less than love constrained our souls
Had I heard you when you first spoke
Had I known you panned for gold
Then perhaps your heart would still beat
At the mention of my name
And perhaps my feet would still move
In directions more the same
Sunday mornings! Ah, the best time
Sunday mornings call for peace
And I find my rest in the soft glow
Of the music's sweet release