This empty house is rounded now and full.
The Song of the Earth pours from my phonograph.
I try to summon up the vivid poetry.
Its text is in my hand but not enough;
It reads like nightmares in full color:
The youthful search for love, at least for beauty,
The drunkard lying dormant, loving stupor
That hides away the rawest wounds of life.
A woman's voice breaks through and sings of autumn,
An autumn filled with tears and bitterness.
The earth, however beautiful, is sullied;
Its greatest joys disguise a rush of tears,
Yet there are lighter moments -- he on horseback,
Great pouring forth of energy and love,
But surely times to recreate the species,
To drain away the essence, to cast out
The broken shell that lately was a hero,
Lonely and disheartened, in despair.
The birds and flowers frolicking forever,
They shine their colors, do things we cannot do,
And sport upon the waning edge of winter,
Singing life, life itself is quite enough,
Don't be so rude to ask those many questions,
Drink only at the ever bubbling fountain.
Dance! Romance! Be faithful and protective.
Earth and canopy must be enough.
Jay Cohen