Music

Music

Fields and woods;
My dearest friends,
Beckon me to commune
With them at the closest,
A city sometimes
Wears look desert,
After a day's toil and exert,
So into moor's untiring breast,
I ventured out
To lie and dream for a moment,
Trickling voice of a Brooklet,
Liquid notes of songsters,
Flitting in the branches high,
Blowing wind's sweet impact,
On branches and leaves that
Rhyme to nature's dictate,
Pattering sound of falling leaves,
Mesmerizing me to a moment's rest
In Mother Nature's lap,
That in silence breathing
Music of all sorts, an intoxicant,
Propelling sleep and dream,
Where in God asking me,
Is not this music mine
And is not this music the best.