Where the children go to play

Where the children go to play

   Is where the summer grass endures

And sunbeams - like a cascade -

   Pour down upon their bronze shoulders.

This - the children have learned well:

   Butterflies don't really flutter -

Instead - they dance a sky waltz

   To the cicadas' fond clamor.

Every breeze is a giant's sigh

   That brushes their roseate jowls;

Every cloud - some foam in the sky

   Behind which angels may be found.

What they know - they won't divulge

   But they know what each new day brings.

Pity them - some drab adults

   Who are ignorant of such things!