The wind calls to me again--
"Come," it whispers,
"O're the meadows,
Better days will surely come,
Play with me,
Your imaginary friend,
Don your dress of scarlet and gold,
Put down your work,
Find a reason to be."

Back I call to the longing breeze,
"The days grow cold,
The others say I'm too old
To play in our meadow.
They tell me
You are not so.
My dress too thin, I shiver beneath,
The scarlet is faded
And so is the gold.
I cannot be,
No, not today can I be."