In sweetest morn of April,
And greenest hilly meadows,
Along mosses and water lily,
As setting in rows,
Oh! a breeze with fresh showers,
And little droplets on every leaflet,
That travel as blood in veins,
Of blossoms,
And that falling as fountain ,
For distant exploring of new beams
That twinkle on old footsteps.
The bird-flight over such scenic meadows,
Like sheath of sword that flee,
And running streams that look;
Like galaxy at night of sweet dreams,
Let suppose I find nature as bride; Ridding over white steed.
The charismatic scenes of nature,
That bestow all means for a joy,
For entities that crawling on her roofs,
And God invoke dead logs to hold carnations_
Of pink buds.
The thoughts of a poet,
That of his revelation,
As his words limit for nature inspiration,
Although a thought come after long mystical adoration,
As to reveal bestowal of nature_
To men.
