So Tell Me Brightly

So tell me brightly, once again, oh Bird
Why we have no Joy? A third of Life
Was buried by some self-deluded strife
And left imprisoned by an impish word.
All numb and softly supple, now so cold
No whispers emanate that pass those bars
Which steal a path that ought to have known stars
That should have shown before our growing old.
So let me hear your voice again, my friend
Whose equal sorry way, of turns I know
Whose song–your song–which I would grow
To match what Is; so let us therefore bend
New paths surrendered to our will and get
Ourselves beyond what past we each regret.


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