Life is just a reflection,
Sometime mirrored in the past.
As we strive for perfection,
We live until we last.
Where the new might grow with the old,
Where the fool is oft times the wise.
Everything has got to be evened out,
Leaving us without a doubt.
Home, home from the horizon.
Far and clear.
Hither to the soft wings sweep.
Flocks of the memories,
Of the days draw near.
The dove-cote doors of sleep,
Which way are they, that come through the
sweet light?
Of all these homing birds,
Which?, with the straightest and the swiftest
flight.
Your words to me, your words.
The first time, I took this girl's hand,
She was as if for whom I was born.
And there's more besides a fair morning,
Needed for a fair day.