There’s a quiet joyousness
In these rites of Spring,
The cuckoo and the pigeon’s breast,
Seasons on a wing.
Dawn chorus is my necklace,
Morning dew my rings,
Sublime the geese-calls overhead,
Divine the dew-blade sings.
My needs no more than gods would bless,
I know I’m better off,
With sun and moon, a place to rest,
All other gains are lost.