The wings of the butterfly flutter and move rapidly. She becomes a poetess at the mere sight of those beautiful flowers. The carmine red, the lilac, the shade of pink laced with a stark white. A song with a heart. A song that the leaves dance to and the cuckoo hums rhapsodies of ecstatic praise. There is no trace of melancholy only sweet consonance.
Immersed in the depthless melody, squirrel feels hoity-toity and muses that if I pass into senescence, the rivers of this garden will be in capable hands. The butterfly while casting a constative look to the squirrel, continues to sing along. The garden was clothed in sackcloth. Time stood still and in this grand hogen-mogen, everything came alive.
A presence that disturbs me with the joy,
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime,
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of the setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And in the blue sky, and in the mind of a man
- Wordsworth
Immersed in the depthless melody, squirrel feels hoity-toity and muses that if I pass into senescence, the rivers of this garden will be in capable hands. The butterfly while casting a constative look to the squirrel, continues to sing along. The garden was clothed in sackcloth. Time stood still and in this grand hogen-mogen, everything came alive.
A presence that disturbs me with the joy,
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime,
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of the setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And in the blue sky, and in the mind of a man
- Wordsworth
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