Upon a sky-flung hill, in the arms of mountains tall and white,

The world goes by


Rich grass rolls ever onward, where feet rarely tread

From which bright flowers sway to and fro
Caressed by a passing breeze

Clouds sail over them On High,
Their shadows traverse the land below
Gliding across the fields, soft and silent


Sunlight bathes the earth

Captured as bright jewels in small streams
That wink and dance in the vibrant waters

They run down to small lakes, clear and smooth,
A perfect mirror of the vast blue, and white nomads ever adrift
Where lone islands of natural hues rise above the surface


The streams gather before a cottage, lax and quaint

With windows gazing out in contemplation
Drinking in the lofty vastness, through lucid eyes

Its water-wheel similarly oblige the tarn at its feet
Lapping softly with each passing day-dream
Nestled in green, amid a tranquil tide of wind and light


All is warm, and still