Blessings are the tidings coming from afar,
the tidings of strangers you know not of, and entreated not their speech, but their willingness to greet you, and the pleasure they intake

no joy is greater than the longly waited praise,but praise more than once is to raise suspiscion to me, It breathes an air of patronization, and my mind can no longer rejoice,

Tea is a glorious awakening, and a marvelous dormentor of nerves, it slows your troubles like herbs to venom,
it leads you back unto your day, lighter, your bags are checked, your luggage off you, behind you, tea is a bell boy.

Passions speak you to your plight, but once in many to your hopes, and if only one of them may win, then greet in, in it rejoice,- it is a satisfication of a dream, a rareness to the world, in it you must find tranquility, in it you must find joy.

Simple joys are that we need, and those I only find, in them the pleasure i have taken, outweigh the harder kind, A gradual talk, or cunning jest leaves me with barrier down, In it i am made the fool, in it I always am the clown.

glory glory find me now, i hold my hand to you, lead me now to sanctity, no holster from you shall i find, in you my sanity,

I bathe myself to sunlight, and bask unto the dawn, in hearts of sharper children, the greatness that they've bourn,they see all i've forgotten, they rise up like the sun, they know their task unto the world, they know what must be done, the innocence is needed in this world of man, glory be to children, may they help us all they can.

The ringing of the hearts may grab the greatest thoughts to mind, the warmth sensed of another is unlike heat of any kind, it aids all to a purpose, it rectifies the soul, it tells us what we need to know, and aims us where to go.

sunshine in the garden growth and bloom live there,
it breeds a rebrirth needed, my lungs filled with stale air, it gives room to new life, it has the Rabbit(Lappate) thrive, it gives the joy to dirtied hands that all need to stay alive.

The inquisities of man and mammal raise my spirits now,
The idle look upon my face is foreign to their ilk,
they know only interest, and in it they explore,
their ignorance is bliss, and makes me mourn knowledge more,

o, the flowers in the field, they know not their purpose there, as they are nothing but the food of stem grown from their rear, But their higher purpose is to all the glee found o so soft, its quickfix of the gloom, tells all they are not lost.