THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

How often friend, do you and I,

Raise our eyes, to scan the sky?

To view the canvas on display.

From break of dawn to end of day

Murals on a scale so grand,

Sketched by nature's mighty hand.

Those pictures never twice the same,

Put mere mortal's works to shame.

From placid blue, at summer noon,

To winter nights, bright stars and moon.

Such varied sights, to please the eye,

In the gallery we call the sky.

Some never see those sights so fair,

Just because they're always there.

Living lives with eyes downcast,

They're forced to look above at last,

And then it's only to complain,

"That sky looks grim, it's going to rain".

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