A double joy it is to read,
My musings in strict verse,
To let my old self kindly lead,
My praises near to burst,
O painted pictures, all the scenes,
My memories - the dirth,
Of many inmost melodies,
My growing man - the birth.

The hum of lights in textured evening,
Tickling the leaves, dancing on beyond,
A humble stream. Not overbearing but,
Overcoming all rolls and folds of black,
That slink into the recesses of the night.

Geometric shadows,
Glorious in asymmetry,
Dance about from lighting forth,
They clothe the walls in splendour,
And point back to the source.