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!