There is naught but sweeter,
Than a child in song;
When the sun’s a golden meter,
And days are long.

The midas orb looks down
Through green leafed shade;
Dappling the ground,
Gold coins inlaid.

Orange tiger lillies wave,
To passing bees;
Beckoning that knave
To ravish, please!

The lady slipper sleeps,
‘Midst mosses green,
Immersed in shadows deep,
And rarely seen.

All streams run crystal clear,
Rainbows and brooks;
Rise slowly to the lure,
From watery nooks.

Coyote calls soon stir,
The thickening night;
And lightning bugs inspire,
In fancied flight.

Warm moon that rises there,
From out the ground;
Floating on thin air,
Without a sound.

Barn owls hail the stars,
In muffled calls,
And cattle call afar,
In lowing bawls.

The moonlight gilds the grain,
In silver bold;
Where sunshine will at noon,
Fair grace with gold.

The world aglow in peace,
There on the farm,
Reminding of the place,
My song was born.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.