The dance of swaying grasses call, Each whisper answering flies, A luminous urge lifts spirits small, To meet the azure skies.

In hand the bloom of daisies dear, Like stars on earthen hill, They nod and bow with simple cheer, That love shall linger still.

As softly through the meads I walk, A gentle rain begins, The droplets spark a sweet-sung talk, A laughter flood that wins.

With every great wave crashing sound, The waters weave a song, For nature’s heart, forever bound, In rhythm soft and strong.

• James Joyce