May Be

The pasture green does go unto eyes end And there I wander with a friend, We find the path, stream and shade And never are again afraid. Fields of wheat, rye and corn Coming from that flowing horn, And as the breeze does rustle bye I sense the tear within the Eye. Now it comes down the way, For each and every day, Speaking are the words we say, Coming softly on a ray. The piece be done, this I say, Gracious be this month of May.