What man lives
Who can write of things
That only God can create?

The wonders of mountains
Or the beauty of the morning,
The smell of the sea,
At evening tide.

The crashing of thunder
Or the breaking of dawn,
The setting of the Sun,
In cloudy skies.

Who is to wonder
At man, small in stature,
Small in accomplishments.

Go, I as a sinner
A man without feelings,
Towards all the others,
That have gone,
Long before, I.

"Into the breech"
she said to me.
So into the breech
it will be.
Stand up to tyranny,
every single day.
It won't be long;
it will go away.

Away we will go,
like a kite in the wind.
Into the bluest of blue
in the cloudless sky.
Flit to the branch
of a new, growing tree,
catching the Sun
as it passes by.
Nothing could be more
grand, for those eyes
of mine to see,
a reflection in your eyes,
and an image of me.

The broad fields of green and gold,
with mountains high, that enfold.
the blue of lakes in your eyes,
slowly, slowly will mesmerize
my mind and it's thoughts
with over powering scent
of those Forget Me Nots.