Paint Job
Birds, up in the trees,
Chirping selves to please,
Flitting under eaves
Of the old gray house,
Cheer of you's like light
All a sudden bright.
Hearing gathers might
At Joy's carouse.
What does Winter say,
Snows now slunk away,
Sadness in dismay
At your quick hope?
Naught, for he was wrong
Stilling so your song,
Sitting icey long
Like an old grey pope.
Glad, be glad again!
Paint, be spread again!
Wrap the souls of men
Round the old gay house!
Copyright © Brian Faulkner | Year Posted 2008
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