2018.01.29.
The little birds of the mountain
The nightingale and the spotless larkAnd the little birds of the mountain,
Wilt thou go as messenger to summer's colour
Which is suffering from a new illness?
I have no gifts
Nor expensive jewels to send
To remind you of him who loves you,
But a pair of white gloves.
The little birds did go
On their distant journey they flew
And then facing Gwen's bed
On the tree they sang.
Said Gwen the colour of the foam
Ah me, what thing is the bird
Which is here warbling now so prettily
And I terminally ill?
We are messengers please believe
Sent on behalf of the one who loves you
To let him know how you are faring
Whether you are growing hale or not.
Tell him softly
That short will be my lifetime,
Before this summer ends sadly
I am going to be among soil and gravel.