She did not want to die when the Skies were blue
And the Spring Whispering words of promises true,
Where Tulips rise from their Winter-Beds
And Snowdrops bloom by Roses Red.
The Southern Breeze It’s hint of days
Of lazy walks by Woodland ways,
And Songbirds sing with Hearts aglow;
A joy of days their songs bestow.
For she did not want to die when the Clouds were Gold,
Her life was short, all fate now told.
To leave the meadows, the spreading trees
The murmur and dance of flitting Bees.
And Cartwheeling Children that tumble down
And ring the dales with childish sound
By burning hills from melting Sun,
Then homeward-bound their frolics done.
The heady-fragrant scented air,
When Hera Breathed her presence there,
The patchwork quilt of wandering plains
And sheltered Groves from Summer Rains.
For she did not want to die when the Skies were blue;
But she Wilted and Waned the Winter through.