Written by Adam M. Snow
O you sweet ol sound that grasp the wind,
you hold so tight to sway again -
through the branches springtide leaves,
such a tune these wind they weaves.
O that sweet ol song I heard before;
those magic notes, amusing score.
Like a moth's once soon cocoon,
your sweet ol song shall bring a new.
The songs that birds in morning sing,
those chapel bells whom we praise to ring.
Among the wind, they play so free -
O sweet ol sound, play again for me.
Let me hear o rustling branches,
a sound of an octave cord -
that of which o nature brings me,
the songs of which the tune - delights me.
The joy your tune in which it brings,
upon the wind - upon pigeons wings.
Songs of which entwined with man,
like that of many passing cars,
or the coming train to name of some;
a flowing rhythm - their own drum.
O this day your finest song,
I can hear it all day long.
To hear thee, o city music,
a concerto to befit,
- entwined with the sound of nature
- entwined with the earth for sure.
Your tune so great it can be seen,
through the branches, leaves of green.
Such an awe we shall not waste,
the joyance of sweet nature's fate.