Oh, to steal the final light, from boughs on high, to join that sweetest Earth’s choir of angels. That final light, with warmth so kind, begs to all, “Return! Return! Abandon your winter roosts! Follow now, to Northern Skies!” And of course, I listen, for Spring’s warmth knows not a lie. Still, I ask, take me for no fool, only the wary may outlast those days that winter hides. Those days when the sun still sets early, and feeds on the young and old finding themselves enchanted by prospects of prosperity. Those days of cruel deception.

No, I speak now of a day’s long warmth, which promises itself tomorrow. I speak of the sun who ambles on through blue painted canvas. I speak of that sun with the strength to shine through the intrusion of clouds. I sing now, for I have arrived again to be the evening’s choir. True, though it is, that the days still must end; the nights are not quite as long. All those I sing to remember the cold, and so hold dearly to the light. Oh, the touch of that bronze glow, come now and hear us. Oh, the life that may continue to live, come now and see us. Take these notes that we sing—oh, that song that is sung to the angels themselves—take these notes and I hope, how sincerely I hope, you may join us in this final light.