The yellow bugles still
Daffodils fade to brownWilt and lie down
Now comes the bruising grass
Scents of enchantment drift
Slow, upon wishing winds
It is the occasion of chimes
That ring like whispers
They sweep in under trees
White, mauve and blue waves
The woodland foam of May
To crash upon rooted rocks
Below the tall greening trees
For wherever bluebells lie
A wood is close at hand
Tended by its elven kin