| 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 |