The leaves in this ancient forest of time
Sparkle in amber-coloured shine,
When the zephyrs ever so gently blow
Towards the morning sun's glory I go,
The sprites in pleasing array
Water Earth in turquoise spray,
The melodies of wren and lark alike,
Clad in golden delight.
Through boughs and maple trees
I float on the wings of a breeze,
The beasts of nature beckon me
To tarry a while, their plea;
I hear bubbling brooks murmur and call
And scarlet apples gently fall,
For a place within death's brink
'Tis a pretty sight, I think.
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