At Sunfield, birds with broken wings

Content themselves with what life brings;

Covert not the wayward means

That would contrive artful schemes.

Reason not life's design,

But in the arms of destiny recline.

They waver and they shuffle,

Unscorned, on doubtful feet,

Reaping the unknown solace

That they be exempt from this one care -

The press of anxious thought

Were life's ambitions to come to naught.

Some bask their geniality in reassuring smiles

And beguile the long day with simple wiles.

Some mute as statues, feign consciousness

And hearken secret prompting

From far uncharted spheres.

Some trapped, like fitful flies

Clamour at intrusive fears

Concealed in airy imaginings.

Some, like butterflies, float

Buoyant on the breeze,

Unencumbered by matters more pressing

Than to watch the sun

Upon his diurnal round progressing.

Some share muffled mutters with shadows.

Do their hearts burn

To tell of things than cannot be known?

Where shall these look for succour -

A shield against harsh seasons

Wild winds and torrid tempests?

From those to whom nature hath given zest

To care for them that cannot forsake the nest.

There shall they find a sanctuary

And nestle in the arms of compassion

As they plod life's pitted path

To consummate Creation's obscure cause

Without regret, without remorse, without redress.