The beauty in a frame,
Which holds such spires aloft,
Starkly in morning lights,
All rush falls mute within,
And picks up silent friendliness.

Am I an actor in the theatre of my mind,
The dusty stage, its weary rebecoming,
I fasten myself an orator twice-lectured,
Ever pacing on the contours of ideas,
Two steps; the echo pierces now the air,
Mere fancy that I sit a playwright, nay,
Each laboured lecture casts my hands
Unlearned, my quill ever wettened,
And my parchment dry.

You've loosed my soul and then my tongue,
You turn to lips and arms, I'm free!
You grow in me a lively song,
You turn to words and dance, I'm free!
For in my wretchedness and need,
I'll see you brighter than the Sun.