The Bins

RIP Robin Gibb of the Bee Gees. This song is my JAM!

It doesn’t offer cover from the storm.

It doesn’t (really) ease the sting

of living; nor nourish us, nor keep us warm.

And men expend their lives in search of sound,

learning how to juggle bits of noise,

and by their swift illusions to confound

the heart with fleeting and evasive joys.

Yet I am full of quaking gratitude

that this exalted folly still exists,

the in an age of cold computer mood,

a piper still can whistle in the mists.

His notes are pebbles falling into time.

How sweetly mad it is, and how sublime.

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

and never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of Me