Every spring<br />I hear the thrush singing<br />in the glowing woods<br />he is only passing through.<br />His voice is deep,<br />then he lifts it until it seems<br />to fall from the sky.<br />I am thrilled.<br />I am grateful.<br />Then, by the end of morning,<br />he's gone, nothing but silence<br />out of the tree<br />where he rested for a night.<br />And this I find acceptable.<br />Not enough is a poor life.<br />But too much is, well, too much.<br />Imagine Verdi or Mahler<br />every day, all day.<br />It would exhaust anyone.