That time on Hallencoly Hill,
I saw them dancing,
Swallows no less than five,Larks no more than fifteen.
A display to herald the Zenithof Spring;
Or the ever-growing Floral song that leads
into June Summer.
Each swallow skipped in skirts ofnavy with blouses of snow,
Whilst their heads were crowned withgarlands of crimson roses.
The prancing, springing andjoyous larks,
Were bedecked in stars to the
Swallows' moon.
Yet each had their hair shaped into anautical crest;
From aqua one way;
Then surf-ultra the other.
Yet it was their song that cameto me;
Entwined with harps, piccolos,
and flutes,
That danced from twirling invisible
hands.
Words also sprang from theavian lips;
To the accompaniment of butterflies
cut from the very sky.
Of woods and towns so far away,That never would I hear of them between
breaks of day.
Of ages old, and ages new;Yet they had remained in
chiselled prime;
Floral Mountains not even Time
could wither.
Till one spied me with a singleglance.
Fresh, unearthly and with more
than a dance.
And up they flew without a secondglance.
Not nymphs, dryads or even
Elf-maids,
But Maltese-crossed Swallows and
Cloud-passing larks.
To continue their dance upon the brow
of a cumulus hill.