SONNET 742
By JH Sayyar
O silver-throated heralds of the blue,
You rise where morning spills its light,
And trill above the fields still wet with dew,
Unseen, yet filling hearts with pure delight
No branch, nor perch your song restrains,
You mount the air as though to kiss the sun,
And pour from heaven your holy strains,
Till the earth and sky in harmony are one
What joy you know, what freedom in flight,
What soul you pour in every trembling note
The world below forgets its weary plight
While on your tide of song it seems to float.
O sky-born bard, no poet rivals thee—
Your verse is winged, ever wild and free.
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