My envy of those richer folks than I;
My glances at the monarch on his throne;
My longing for the leisure I’d have known
If born somebody else–all these I try
In vain to put aside. They multiply,
These seeds of discontent, once sown.
And then comes April, green and blossom-blown,
When my ego, in one soul-bursting cry
Is grateful I am who and what I am:
That I have eyes to see and lips to sing,
And ears that hear, away above the sham
Of man’s gross noises, all the lilting Spring.
If he I envied knew the ecstasy
I find in April, he would envy me!
by Ray Romine Tuesday, April 2, 1946
