I never win,
Racing against dragonflies,
But I love it.

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath a cool syringa's scented shade,
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly,
Wanders as careless and content as I.

Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and filmy wing,
Who with indifference givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!

Swirling coils of thick heat
Rise like snakes, reaching
Waving angrily in the air,
Poisoning us who cling
To the parched earth,
And stretch, up, up
Into the cool, tender night,
Whose cool fingers sooth
And gentle caresses calm
The angry snakes
Until they coil back down to sleep,
And then her gentle breath
Soothes, too, our troubles
And lays us down softly sleeping
Into the comforting coils
And warm bodies
Of the snakes

You've got to move to the rhythm and sway
Let the sound wash your troubles away
Its your turn to seize the day
So swim in the rhythm and sway

Hold your arms out to catch the beat
Lose your self in the music retreat
Spin on your new light feet;
Have the bad pounded out by the beat

Its not a song, its your soul
Feel it heal you until you're whole
It'll warm you when you're cold
Move to the music of your soul