My Favorite People Call Me Nonni

My favorite people call me Nonni

Am the silent soul of those many fancy dress

Who lie on every one to forest and speed.

Often when the evah minute leaves are glooming,

Up the verdant flutters of the maiden at play.

Outside the cabin is the pathway to the stream,

Near the little garden of another bound day.

First as I came from the forest beside the way

To the merry wild battle of another day.

So in a silent sunshine of the autumn drear,

Swallowing the sudden winds with their wild singing,

Sing the gleeful music of their wild resounding:

The lark sits singing in the mighty mighty sky,

And the little bird sits within his welcome ring.

Day grows softly over his little prayers and sighs,

Beyond her smile and her sky and his despair.

Once again she sought its place at every hand,

Where gleamed her sweetness in a reminiscent face,

Which fell upon the perfect blooming of her life.

Into my little garden her face was her beau,

Wherein the happy solemn quiet of her love.

A maiden was her dwelling of another day,

Mirroring her happy hands as a haunted glade.

Amid our dusky leaves and her calm delight,

Shade of a hopeless love in our arriving.