O’er the hills, in the far eastern valleys vast expanse, there lays the green pastures, on which the shepherds flock does so comfortably feast. Where the knee-high blades bend beneath your hands as you reach down.

Barefoot, you run across the wide, open plains,
the beads morning dew catch on your feet.
As footprints you do leave, trail across the emerald plain.

Small seemingly insignificant dots of flowers,
Red, blue, yellow, a great host of colour, quite the pretty painting it would be. The flowers beds, home to the elegant dances of the flowing butterflies, and the youthful crickets song.

The sapphire sky, with snow white clouds, lingering here and there,
float and drift in timing with the winds whisper, gentle though it were.

As one wanders throughout the Wonderful grasslands, you see the fleet of blades shiver and dance. Final beads of dew do catch the radiant spot of sun, and catches in your eye, a photograph a painting, of a wonderful Elysian Field.