In song, I thought I watched God’s careworn Face

Brushed by bright wings—the unborn human race

Who did not want their mortal birth—just yet!

I heard the growing flowers cry in the night,

And trees—that whisper of old cherished things.

And still the startled, hurried rush of wings—

It was the stars sighed out—upon their flight.

O Troubadours, O Stars, what sing you of?

O wandering minstrels, is it to God’s plan

You sing?—or to the exiled heart of man