Today I have patterned the house of my thought
On a concept so small I feel prisoned therein.
The walls are too close, and there's no joy in singing
If selfishness sends back an echoing din.
Out on the headland a strong wind is blowing,
A wind from the west, and the morning is fair.
Above the blue ocean, where blown spray is flying,
The herring gulls dive from their perches of air.
I shall go out where the west wind is blowing,
Where the joy of a song can ride, over the sea,
Where self-centered smallness is lost in God's freedom
And never an echo can come back to me.
