A bird in my garden sang.
A pang
(I no not why)
Into my heart sprang.
Perhaps it is the knowledge that I will die,
Though birds will still sing
Be it winter or spring,
And bring
A melancholy joy
To girl and boy.

The tears start
When nature’s beauty overpowers.
Countless hours
Has many a poet spent,
His efforts bent
On personifying mother nature,
The creator,
Who has no heart
Yet lives and breathes
Through his art.