There, high upon the dewy mountain sits a lonely cloud,
Floating over coloured hills,
And over a meadow field of golden daffodils,
Stretching in a never-ending line in between the woods like a silent promise.
The horses gallop into the red glare of the horizon as the sun sets,
And at night they stop besides the lakes and settle as the stars continues to shine,
The lake seems to shine as fireflies flutter in the breeze in a spring dance,
In such a company, the moon glitters over the dark woods.
The song of the Old falls over the night like a call,
And in a distance some tiny flowers bloom under the moons shine,
Its petals droop with dew of the night,
The call of the wild sounds over the yonder as the night ends and the the day begins.
Winter is coming, trudging slowly with its pack of ice and snow,
A crystalline beauty with patchwork of ice in its patterns,
The snow will fall down the valley and the birds will hurry abroad like frightened beads,
Casting their bodies afloat and in the air is a blossomed sailing.
Nests of skimming swallows lay abandoned,
As they glide over a patchwork of purple hyacinths twittering like lovers,
In and out do they enjoy the flow,
Leaving behind their nests behind on bare withered trees.
The earth lays bare with desserted trees,
And the last of the dew cling in a downward mist,
The beauty of the song is not truly seen for many don\'t have the eye for the bare days,
Upon the withered meadow lanes,
Just before the first of snow falls and before the heavens bend and bows.