at the beginning

no trumpets echo in the deepest night

each is alone and must make their own way

towards the portals that let in new day

lacking the hearty pleasures of insight

and most uncertain still the bastard fright

will not much longer have unfettered sway

within this realm nor will the foolish bray

insisting on what cannot long be right

what we find true belongs to honest chance

the golden bloom that in the dawn we pluck

with loving thoughts arisen in each heart

ready the while to furnish our advance

with certainty that goes beyond plain luck

and all the wisdom that is from our art

by good chance

we are not measured rightly by good chance

our hopes are limitless but not our skin

there are no victors ever at this dance

they told us this was the time to advance

that all the old faults had been cast in bin

we are not measured rightly by good chance

our wounds will never let us jump or prance

and when we are related we're not kin

there are no victors ever at this dance

since it's a game whose players can enhance

their virtues best by adding to the din

we are not measured rightly by good chance

nor yet permitted to take up a stance

above the fray our only hope is sin

there are no victors ever at this dance

but there are still fools who think it romance

and who believe that there's a prize to win

we are not measured rightly by good chance

there are no victors ever at this dance

a simple song

viewing the tree in full and honest leaf

wet with the rain and startling in its green

indecency of summer is to mean

both more and less than normal plain belief

that nature is a sort of crafty thief

taking all life once she has set the scene

and leaving nothing but the space between

the moments of creation and sharp grief

for here is full eruption of true life

at its great peak of wealth to be adored

by all who wish to see it lasting long

yet who forget both efforts and hard strife

in hope to keep eternal the true chord

and hear within each heart a simple song