may my heart always be open to little |
birds who are the secrets of living |
whatever they sing is better than to know |
and if men should not hear them men are old |
may my mind stroll about hungry |
and fearless and thirsty and supple |
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong |
for whenever men are right they are not young |
and may myself do nothing usefully |
and love yourself so more than truly |
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail |
pulling all the sky over him with one smile |