When I walk down the street in the morning
I often gaze at the hillside flowers.
They are so lightly white and so brightly yellow.
They are so lightly, brightly, white and yellow,
And so very fairy airy,
They seem to float unconnected above the grass.
They’re waiting for some gentle hands
To cup and breathe them in,
Then blow them out again,
To float about for other puffing trips,
So very fairy airy, so merry deary cheery,
All sweetly meetly white and yellow,
And ever soft as feathered pillow,
Fain of faintest sleeping o’er the grass,
But fainer most of waking joyfulness
To be the perfect, real, hillside flowers!

When I walk down the street in the morning
I often gaze.