Her voice

Blackbirds sing, in early morning,
as I seek to quell the yawning,
relict of unwonted waking,
at the time when dawn is breaking.
Rising in anticipation,
of my weekly assignation,
I dress with care like some poor swain,
eager to hear her voice again.
That urgent voice that hints at bliss,
of hidden secrets, and in this,
I know that I am not alone,
that other men frequent that throne,
which she adorns with careless grace,
though few indeed, have seen her face.
But Ah! that voice, that brazen laugh,
that seems to split my heart in half,
since she bestows her charms on all,
to young and old she sends her call,
"Come to me now! At once! This day!
This hour! This minute! Now I say!""
In anxious haste I tread the road,
and come at last to her abode,
for weak or strong, or rich or poor,
she calls us to her open door,
her voice a strident ringing yell,
The voice of Saint Augustine’s bell!