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.

lifenaturesonnet

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