Gradually, the soft murmurs of the trees
Drift towards me;
A blossom or two drifts down,
Landing gently on the grass.

Even the river seems to slumber,
Waiting in quiet anticipation.
The dew-kissed grass, a tender green,
Lies with open heart—

Waiting for the ceaseless, golden waves
To descend;
For the sky to awaken,
For buds to bloom,
And for the air all around
To fill with fragrance.

Dawn has broken—
The night has taken its leave—
And now, across the horizon,
The radiant sun scatters
Its exquisite crimson glow.