My pre-dawn reverie, while birds begin to sing,
Stirs me as well into the mode of song,
Eager to find out what the Muse may bring
That in an aubade rightly might belong—
Which should, according to the birds, be praise:
Their songs seem celebrations of the light
Just now appearing in its faintest rays,
Which soon will bring the glorious world to light.
What is it then our praise should celebrate
But life itself, the cosmic mystery,
And consciousness that in ourselves grows great
Enough to know it knows more than we see.
So let us then not only praise but seek
Such insight that in us may prove unique.