It is the time for flowers again,
the lily fold, the iris frill,
The foxglove tower, and the trumpet,
of the golden daffodil.

The strawberries now are growing plump,
and sweeter with the days that pass,
While butterflies and jewel-eyed hares,
are quivering in the flower-filled grass.

First, through whispering trees, I spy,
a swan next to a water mill,
On liquid silver there it drifts,
and scoops the water with its bill.

Then, further on, a startled deer,
comes springing from its faerie dell,
It stares and freezes to the spot,
as if beneath a magic spell.

I pass the grey-stone country church,
so small beside a sprawling yew,
And in the grounds a cemetery,
with headstones crowding, all askew.

Then topsy turvy cottages,
with ivied walls and crooked gate,
With roses clustering round the door,
and wood still crackling in the grate.

It seems they had no set squares when,
this winsome little town was planned,
That every map of every house,
was drawn up by an elfin hand!

At last I reach the city where
like finely-chiselled ivory,
The towering old cathedral stands
with everywhere a filigree.

And as I start to wander home,
the sun has disappeared again,
But I am happy now to walk,
In cool, refreshing silver rain