Where The Children Go To Play

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!