The curtain rises at the break of day,

Sweet feathered chorus rousing to the call,

An April morning, sullen, cold, and grey

With still an air of spring to hearts enthrall;

Another scented summer stands in wait

For spring, still in her peignoir, pink and blue,

To drift to sleep until drab winter’s prate

Wakes her again when his next reign is through.

Thespians of the solstice come and go,

Their soliloquies commissioned by the sun

Who orchestrate the tempo and the flow

Of every act until each play is done.

Here I, glad patron of this living art

Behold with eyes what best is held by heart.