ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND

The sun is rising in the east;
     Fingers of sunbeams that it flings
     Fall on the barn-cock's feathered wings;
     He rocks the heavens as he sings,
But his song is lost to me.

The mother hen leads out her chicks;
     Each one, a yellow ball of down,
     Emits a mellow peeping sound
     Which fills the air with joy around.
But it brings no joy to me.

The sun has risen in the east
     But it has set on someone dear,
     Someone who was to me so near
     That no joy penetrates the tear
Of sorrow flowing in me.

          Craig Staudenbaur

Craig A Staudenbaur

Staudenbaur, Craig A

C A Staudenbaur