The wild flowers, In their blue, Dance lightly, In fields of gold, As if the sun Were a friend, Shining down With laughter, And warmth.

    Their colors, 
  A chorus, 
 Singing softly, To the breeze.
 They whisper   Secrets of the heart,   In the silence of the landscape,
      Beneath a sky,
          Open, wide.

• Sylvia Plath