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Tears are Not Intended {By Don Beckman}

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One morning not so long ago
When nothing turned out right,
A little bird paused on the sill
To rest from it’s long flight.
‘Oh little bird,’ I said, ‘I’m sad;
Although we’re deep in Spring,
The bluebells planted at my door
just simply will not ring.’
And then I knew how senseless
It was to fume and fret;
That I didn’t count my blessings
Was a cause for real regret.
For with the beauty all about,
Despite what day might bring,
I knew the birdlet’s song was true;
‘Why cry when you can sing?’

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