Songs

By Pauline Havard

The thrush that sings to praise the light,

The bird that sings at dead of night,

The river rushing to the sea

In silver jocularity—

All sing or chime because they must;

And Man, too, fashioned from the dust,

Seeing the bird, song-shaken leaf,

Knowing his interval is brief,

Like river and bird lifts high his voice,

However faintly, to rejoice.