With words I painted spring
So the cuckoo bird could sing,
Sing she did, but not in glee,
Her notes just yielded pity for me -
My heart shall beat for eternity;
It takes its cue and hums along,
For life is but an endless song
That brims with sublime variety.
The flowers be wilting, it is spring,
The mind be fleeting, it is spring,
The pain be seething, it is spring,
My heart be bleeding, it is spring.
Laid back on the couch of a grassy patch,
He gazes at the vastness of the sky,
His wandering gaze would browse the cosmos high
When twinkling bodies with starry eyes match.
Shelley! You are the deathless defender,
The champion of poets in flesh and blood,
Your poetry is no putrid pretender,
Through fluid verses forceful flows its flood.
In my thoughts I forged a lyre
And softly fed it of my mind,
And tried to play many an air,
But lifeless was its kind.
As I hold the chords and strum the strings,
my guitar sings;
Passionate, I clasp it to my breast,
Long had I braved the seas in boats of wood,
But rudderless I tossed and turned in vain,
Till shipwrecked on the shores of life I stood
With naught but sordid counts of loss and gain.
The leaves of trees waved to the wind,
I reclined on a grassy bed,
I tried to purge my tired mind
Of tedious phrases heard and said.