smiling son of summer sky
eyes of blue and wings of grey –
take me far and take me high!
Over land of tree and town,
wind or storm they’d see me soar
sing the song of every star
rise again in search for more.
So it came to be one night
O, the time was right to reap
by the willow, rye, and mill:
bed for long awaited sleep.
That’s how it went; that’s how it ends
the songs of stars, so dulled a blade
I’ve heard them all, I hear them now
they leave no mark on ancient ear.
Sky in sight with so plain a name
time to set the rhyme away
to draw the blinds and then to turn
the words the wings to dust.
sometimes with eyes so blue, when all the windows sleep:
I gaze above and long to know
what I saw seven years ago.
Klee, Paul. Heroic strokes of the bow. 1938. Museum of Modern Art, New York. Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org. Accessed December 2016.