Real

When I walk down the street in the morning I often gaze at the hillside flowers. They are so lightly white, and so brightly yellow. They are so lightly brightly white and yellow, And so very airy, They seem to float unconnected above the grass. They're waiting for my gentle hands To cup and breathe them in, Then blow them out again, To float about for other blowing trips, So very fairy airy, so merry deary cheery, All sweetly meetly white and yellow, And ever soft as feathered pillow, Fain of faintest sleeping o'er the grass, But fainer most of waking joyfulness To be the perfect, real, hillside flowers! When I walk down the street in the morning I often gaze.