Song of the Glade
In thou I waltz beneath the bower white,
A woven canopy of floral vine,
Where incensed airs and zephyrs in sunlight,
Provide a bouqet for the berry wine,
Approaching to the altar in mid-day,
and here the honysuckle winds upon,
the marble tablet swirled with stormy gray,
protruding busts of syrinx piping fauns.
Oh season of the drones and butterflies,
When honey’s in the air amidst the fray,
of multi-coloured vibrant floral dyes,
and warbling notes of birdsong that portray,
the primavera vox of motley hues,
that conjures solstice darklings to debut.