If not truth or beauty
then what is the sound of the robin at dawn
as the sun rises in a swirl of pink and gold
and summer fragrance rises from the rose?
Listen to the trilling song,
the greeting of the day
and in this moment,
relish the thought of being here, too,
constant in a moment
yet mortal, mutable
in this truth, find the beauty,
this—all we need to know
Happy Birthday to John Keats (October 31, 1795—February 23, 1821).