Why did we ride the rough road,
when the trolley rolled easily by;

And why did we climb the tall hill,
when the valley lay safe at our side;

And who sent us out in the twilight,
to come back with a basket of words;

To fashion a future quotation,
which the desperate world deserves;

Perhaps it was something foolish,
the dare of an anger at best;

By chance the ghost of a poet,
whose song can never rest.

And why did we drink the cold rain,
with the soup so warm on the stove;

And why did we wind up alone,
humming melodies of love;

We did it simply to do it,
we did it to be tender yet tough;

We did it for the beauty of music,
isn't that explanation enough?

CHARLES JOHN QUARTO

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