Who has slept and heard their cries
softly weeping, and sought out
to cry back from slumber,
with a voice gently creeping:
“Oh, bird of rain, muse from the sky,
what’s great refrain may never dry,
now weather this storm and dream with me,
to warmly roost, here safe and free…”
And then woken there—where branches grow
and new things sprout, where there is love,
no longer doubt—to see it real?
A bird of the morning on the branch,
may ever a song be in its heart;
of sight and sound, to never part,
but with the rain to stay:
“We brim this cup and empty it,
what’s lasting draught may round us out,
that we, no more dispirited,
might find ourselves.”