The crashing tides,
The howling winds,
The calling birds,
The crunching leaves,
Is what I hear.
The dancing trees,
My flowing hair,
The yellowing grass,
The prancing deer,
Is that of which I see.
The bark of trees,
The flannel of my sweater,
The cold brush of the winds,
Are all the things I feel.
The darkening sky,
The colorful clouds,
The setting sun,
Are those of which I wish to run into.
My arms flung wide,
Running, running, running,
And whirling, whirling, whirling,
'Till my home is far behind,
And the sunset now my enshrined.