Trees, their swaying branches, the rustling of the leaves,
Brilliance of the summer sky, the earth in quiet, heaves.
Ears, in earnest seeking, the whispering corn, their sheaves,
The distant cattle lowing, the child, his mother cleaves.
Will I gaze again the kindly curves of your sweet and gentle face,
Or touch that softly flowing mane, your hair, its fragrance trace.
With eyes that spy a warming hope, as spring through winter, grace,
And hips that sway with flowing beat, a pause in time and space.
Do you know how much I love you, to count indeed the ways,
How every single dewdrop, a tinge of the sun’s own rays.
While the trees in the countryside, adore, the flowers gaze,
As I, they too, your loveliness, the hours, they turn to days.