Song of Springtime

O, that sweet, sweet symphony of sound,
so soothing to the savouring ears.
Like springtime songs alive, unbound,
or yearning youth in years.
Sitting in the moorland meadow,
That April breeze gently blowing.
The bleating lambs as white as snow,
those daisies fairly growing.
But from this age ripened hand,
I give this white lily to you,
this gift born from a dying land,
yet as young as morning dew.
For even mountains, long past their prime,
Are reborn in the songs of springtime.

The End

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