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!