The Song

I wrote this poem while sitting at the base of the clocktower building one calm spring evening in my final year of study.  Enjoy.

Your song, oh God, is deeper; richer
Than any man-made sound or mixture.
The soft whisper of rustling leaves
In springtimes cool, refreshing breeze;
A muted sound of rushing stream
Is beauty heard and yet unseen;
Sparrows lift a care-free cry
As playfully they race the sky;
And down below a child at play
Laughs a toast to this glorious day.

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