He Is Time

Oh, somewhere songs of summer soar
Where, oh, there’s not a flower more,
And somewhere there’s a man who sings
Of spreading buds and gushing springs.
And while the winter gathers cold
And grasps it tight within its hold,
The song and singer soar more high
And paint a picture for my eye
Of cities sparkling, towers straight,
That do not years or seasons wait,
But climb aloft on reason’s wing
And do not stop for anything.
The songs of summer leap sublime,
And man the singer, he is time.

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