If you can keep a heavy head high,
and facing that bright sun —
you’ll be able to lose, but still
feel, in a way, you’ve won.
Sunny, still, when the clouds crawl in;
gay though the day is done —
And in the dark hours you’ll have the
time to become unspun.

In a field of festive flowers
there’s one that’s lost its line.
Its face droops down, shyly twisted —
its sun refused to shine.
But its sun is surely the same
sun as is yours or mine,
though its coy stance speaks its own truth,
and follows its own sign.