Victory

flowing over the hills of gold
a blue tide carries the bird of white
neither too young nor too old
blessed with a story untold
he flies carelessly into the night

hills fall into a golden plain
as wings lift spirits higher still
to find the gentle rain
of loving tears again
the white bird sets to with a will

"despair not into lowest pride"
sounds out the high voice of reason
"for your soul it would hide
and would constantly bide,
and make ill upon every season."

a soul flares up in spite
and the white bird hastens away
for the bark is the bite
for the deed that is right
and wrong has no reason to stay.