When the sun is rejoicing alone in heaven,
The clouds have all hurried away.
Down in the meadow the blossoms are waking,
Light on their twigs the young leaves are shaking,
Round the warm knolls the lambs are a-leaping,
The colt from his fold o'er the pasture is sweeping,
And on the bright lake,
The little waves break,
For there the cool west is at play.
J. G. Percival.