The Drawing of the Day

The drawing of the day, 

the quiet, fading bloom, 

a melancholic hue 

forgoes the brash, the new,

may calm be in this room.

In legion with the dust, 

(as ashes in the grate, 

may lie forgotten there),

I am beyond all care, 

and yield myself to Fate.

But though it may be dim, 

and still a lesser light,

a glimmer comes this way, 

to grace my darker day,

and cast away the night.

And I - free as a bird - 

with hope none can deny,

will surely grow my wings, 

and be the one who sings

“I live - where shall I fly?”