Who can more blessed be?
Who can more blessed be than us, mate?
The morn hath broken free in us, of late,
Through the mist of the city that sleeps embowered
Into timeless elegance of Love that took over
Us all the time, this season of wonderous spectacle,
Who can more blessed be than us, tell?
We can rise to the morrow of our own wanderings
We can with throatful ease cause the spring's second coming,
We can sing as sings the nightingale within us,
We can hold the fabulous time and let it not pass,
Who can more blessed be than us?
Whence we can pour inkful hearts by music thus?