For whom I sing, I truly do not know-
Perhaps the hopeful trees who lift their heads,
Perhaps the glist’ning glares of crumbling snow,
Or spiders’ new domain of silken threads.
For what I sing, I cannot give a name-
Its pull is untold as the stars above,
Who hide their
faces at Apollo’s flame-
A summons to the sparrow and the dove.
Zephyrus brings sweet melody to light,
Like braided tresses with my song entwined
As one who leaves the realm of endless night
My eyes
open anew, no longer blind
Perhaps I sing not for the morning dew-
Perhaps, my dear, my song is meant for you.
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