Comus To every thing there is a season, A time for joy, for grief, for reason. The trees, they whisper softly in the breeze, While flowers burst in colors, rich with ease.

So gather ‘round, sweet friends, in nature’s arms, Let laughter rise with every bee that charms, For here, in twilight, dreams and visions reign, And as we tread, we put aside all pain.

• John Milton