The wind that dances with trees
drops Summer's snowflakes, golden leaves.
And on our heads it blows the breeze.
Softly whistles, turns, and flees.

The ground where sky and soil meet,
plush and green beneath our feet,
And when you sit, the softest seat,
It stretches long below the street.

The willow, tall, he bravely stands,
Ole Rue he's called across the land.
And if you climb, and take his hand,
You'll feel his face, as smooth as sand.

From your window in the mill
You'll see the willow on the hill.
The wind, the ground, all silent, still
Until you're back to feel their thrill.