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.