Had the heart a certain language
I’d learn to speak the same
To translate joy, and analyze
The dialect—of shame
Orators would speculate
“What spirit fills his lungs?”
Then seal their lips in honor of
The tenderest of tongues

If history was but a hound
I’d have him at my heel
To fetch fish caught on hooks of time
On lines which never reel
When I made meals of memory
I’d let him have the crumbs
Then take him hunting in pursuit
Of moments yet to come

Were that gladness was a bluebird
I’d hold it to my chest
Or gather twigs beneath the dew
To build for it a nest
How sweet to hear its homely tune!
To hear its vocals roll!
I’d try to tempt the flighty bird
To perch within my soul

Could one condense the Universe
I’d keep it in a tome
What fields of deepest knowledge
My mind would ever roam!
I’d contemplate infinity
Find wisdom where it’s stored
In the pages which resemble
The journal of the Lord

If love produced a blossom
I’d take it in my palm
What a blessing, the bright color!
How soothing, such a balm!
I’d keep a petal for my own
The rest, drop from my hands
For such a flower would multiply
And populate the lands