SUMMER STROLL

As the firelight burns low, I hear them—

Their harmonicas humming, soft voices

Singing of long lost loves,

Or newfound in a flame red glow.

As I walk by the old stone church,

Their hymns of praise roll out

Like thunder on the hills at night.

Far distant, a sound like jewels sparkling:

Voices that grow slowly higher as I walk.

Glorious tenors, baritones caress

As sopranos and mezzos strike the harp

At the concert hall. I cry out loud—

Oh, America! Your hosts awake the Earth

When you sing of your past, your future,

But most of all when you sing

Out of sheer pleasure in the music.