When joy alights like a bird on a fence post
arrested in fragile flight
do not frighten her away.
When she comes in the clutch of the heart
at the scent of the evening air
instinct with life and memory,
in the grey-blue of the sky at twilight,
in the sweep of the pine tree to the sky,
Do not say,
There are depths to be plumbed,
There are knots to be worried at.
I have no time for this.
Nor listen to the more insidious voice that lectures,
Death and disease roam the streets.
Pitiless murder with bloody sword unsheathed stalks all the ways of the world,
and beauty and innocence fall before him.
What right have I to be happy?
Rather stand still,
It is a gift.