Post by Forte! on Jul 30, 2009 19:31:08 GMT -5
The End of July, or a Song for Those With Heavy Burdens
Marigolds, tulips, and dancing red poppies,
that wave in the wind as we slowly walk by,
your eyes on the road and your hand in your pocket,
as you ponder and harry the sweetest July.
But why so sober among all this clover?
And why do you not seem as happy as I?
Come smell all the roses here blooming sweetly,
take your eyes of the dust and look to the sky.
Can you not see all the thin faeries dancing?
Or the painted orange wings of the lone butterfly?
These moss-covered woods, they beckon and whistle,
and wave tantalizing your dull pensive eye,
But come now, love, down to the brook,
where the fishes dart swiftly at crow’s raucous cry,
and maybe you’ll find something there to be happy,
and smile, the end of the day drawing nigh.
Marigolds, tulips, and dancing red poppies,
that wave in the wind as we slowly walk by,
your eyes on the road and your hand in your pocket,
as you ponder and harry the sweetest July.
But why so sober among all this clover?
And why do you not seem as happy as I?
Come smell all the roses here blooming sweetly,
take your eyes of the dust and look to the sky.
Can you not see all the thin faeries dancing?
Or the painted orange wings of the lone butterfly?
These moss-covered woods, they beckon and whistle,
and wave tantalizing your dull pensive eye,
But come now, love, down to the brook,
where the fishes dart swiftly at crow’s raucous cry,
and maybe you’ll find something there to be happy,
and smile, the end of the day drawing nigh.
