Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…

Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…

Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…

Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…

Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…

Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…

Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…

Lower your voice in the garden. Flowers have songs for the wise. Sometimes you can hear them sing To serenade the skies. Lower your voice here, and listen. This awareness will not hurt. Here,…

Have you felt the chill of fall? It’s come this way before. See! it gathers over hills. September comes once more. Cooler mornings changing shifts With eighty-degree days, ‘Til there comes October-land, And sweater…

Meet me where the grass is fragrant From the morning dew; I have learned a melody And want to sing to you. It can’t be another place. My voice won’t rise so high. I…

A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For…

I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I…

I glide through Ageless galaxies. Eternity Does quake. I soar through Starstuff old and new To show you that I wake. I pass through Endless light-years, And secrets of The deep, All to drive…

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it…

which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet.…