only so high roll the sun up the sky 
that a guild of mists should profit thereby
that artists among us may train their eye
on those untouched sheaves of gold they so prize

silence between thoughts in the ideal world...
enter the whistle or pip of one bird
frame and magnify the lyrical word
for her plain song purport may yet be learned

bright is the morning, the shadow has passed
the besieging monsters have been recast
down by the river fated to flow fast
petals will open, white, red, in contrast