Among the blades of dull, green grass,
old brown leaves lie and squirrels pass
towards the lake, once fresh, now bleak.
The waves wrinkle her aged cheek.
Where silence puts the old at ease,
“Come, be my love,” beckons the breeze.
The grassy bank(was once a meadow)
draped in quilts of sun and shadow
confides, as the wise lake hears
the glory of her youthful years.
For ripened life’s, for autumn’s sake,
“Come, be my love,” beckons the lake.
The skies shower a darling blue
the grass is green; a lovely hue.
The gallant breeze; he sings with joy.
Sweet damsel lake; she smiles with coy.
Youth blushes deep; eager but shy,
“Come, be my love,” beckons the sky.
The flowers bloom on a summer’s day.
The grass ripples with laugh and play.
Innocent eyes and cheeks of cherry,
the lake, her bank, they look so merry.
Les jours de l’enfance* are so few
“Come, be our love,” they beckon you.
les jours de l’enfance= the days of childhood