Under a willow in yellowing fields, 

Watching the bees as summertime yields, 

The flowers to autumn's bitter chill. 

I sit in the grass and time stands still. 

Feathered white clouds hang in the sky, 

Where southbound birds gracefully fly, 

And sing their songs in solemn tones, 

While spiders leave their silken thrones.  

Ages pass over the old willow's hill, 

Even then I pretend that time stands still.