How gracefully the blessed hues do fly!
Oh, what a gift they are to mundane skies.
As tears were shed, imagine the surprise
Of flying colors, drying other eyes.
Yes, little hands do grip the blistering string
And happily they fondle beauteous things
But soon or later, dainty fingers slip
So bid goodbye, with much a quivering lip.
But do not fret, oh little child dear
For, hark, your joy will someone else soon cheer.
Adult or baby, seeing the maverick fly
Will, deep inside the cavern, a smile find.
Those blessed orbs of summer joy do keep
Upon the Lord's stage, to bid an angel sleep.
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