On a Road to the Henge
Was an ordinary August day, Hot enough to crisp the hay. Rolled and stacked, And a bit ransacked. A pasture of trampled summer grass; Golden shine grappled as I pass, Of dusty summer, the hay smelt yet; Whittled bales, they formed a fret. On a dusky meadow, the lambs lay; As the sun shone, they made hay. The penetrating wind whistled away; Of love and joy, my music of the day.
