On a frosty winter morn,
I became a thought-full urn,
Naturally inclined to early meditation,
If by chance I may perceive life's injunctions.
Oft merry and oft mournful,
Oft weary band oft joyful,
Life's music has been my swings,
So is the lot of many mortal beings.
What privations do assail me in this stay!
What soul-afflicting plights in this walk way!
On what mental mood and food do I brood?
Oh! What reflections may soothe a young yogix dude!
Albeit, confined am I to my hopeful thought,
In sublime time may eternal bliss be brought.
Though in my seat of thought I feel awe,
May I not be, of truth and sight, mentality poor.
Visions of the eternal reach of time,
Have been my soul's meat in this clime,
Oft expressed in my gift of lines,
Treasured beyond the gold in Spanish mines.
