Earth opens slowly, the hour who can tell?
What has been sung returns,
And the dewdrops settle too,
While a sleepy fairy queen yawning lifts her wings,
And gazes out at the pastures, craggy rocks, and streams.
Whisking through the river air,
To court the morning breeze -
She dances with the butterflies,
Spinning gold to pointy leaves.
In distant lands she wakens
The valley's gentle roll,
Where through the shadow's edge she slips,
To listen all alone.
Across the land she glances back,
Her wings begin to wither,
One sweep of her magic wand
Returns her pastures to her.