i'm quietly waiting for the Spring that will never be
i'm silently hoping for the green i´ll never see:
for each and every, hiveless honey bee
flies fast away on fairy wings farther than i can flee
i'm quickly resigning myself to the churning of the sea;
i'm slowly learning i will never be as free
as the mockingbird nestled upon the nectar tree
since i can no longer sing with nearly as much glee
O! if only i could sing again—surely that's the key!
but one's Iris blossoms, at a costly fee
and there is no marigolden melody nor heartfelt plea
whose laureled bounty is grand enough to return my Voice to me.