The diurnal course of light dances down

Amicable, ascending, faces shine

Amidst youth, utterly unscathed from frown

Orbs hidden behind many a fine line

Our souls are heaved high.

As we contend to a tight tennis match

The rackets of whit and friendly fire

Compel sun beams, to eternally snatch

The open, uncertain, soul from their pyre

Our souls are heaved high.

Drawn down again to finish their story

Though,  the folio is forever frail

Promise a future grasp upon Glory

With exuberant detail, then exhale

Oh! How my soul is heaved high!