It was a lover and his love, with a ‘hum’ and a ‘hah’ sung, that over the fields of green passed in the midst of summer. The only time through a year of four cycles did nature flourish, the flowers bloom and clouds hang high, the eye of Celestia overhead in the sky. When sweet songs of birds do come and serenade lovers ears, propelled through air as if it were not there, through thick shades underneath looming trees, reaching out to be heard. Summer is the time of love.
Across fields of rye, the troubles of life not close by, the pretty country ponies would lie. And the song would be heard, chirped out loud from the soaring bird, the folks feeling of woe and turmoil would be cured. With that graceful gallop and trot of truth, the lover leads his love past the cold winter and brief spring, like the winds of heaven brushing along, grassy fields swaying in its embrace. Summer is the time of love.
At the hour, when into Neptune’s salt water and Gaia’s orbed ground the sun descends, their carol begins. Mighty forces push stellar bodies across the vast gap between this world and the next but pale at the song of lovers’. Words of deep understanding from one heart to the other transmit, an immense burning passion lit, undeterred by spirits of the night as in each other’s presence they sleep. Summer is the time of love.
In the midst of dreams, sweet visions reside, and the joys of living are renewed in peaceful slumber. Currents warmed from the day’s shining sun, over hills and plains do they run, to caress those stranded in dark, not touched by the moon’s mark. Just as bright does the luminescent body of the night shine, an ambient feeling is brought through its rays, for the song of summer does not end there, a tune still carried along flowing air. The whistles of wind, the hoot of the owl, the crickets chirp, the hem and haw of a settling land. Summer is the time of love.
To a sweet and merciful shining do they wake, still wrapped in love’s embrace, the cherishing glow from which unending nourishment is cast, strengthening their resolve to make their passion last. Once more, against rough winds and the passing of time do they rush, over dirt trails enclosed by thick green brush, across fields of wheat and corn, a deeper existence during which is born. Summer is the time of love.
As their minutes hasten to their end, in sequent toil all forwards do contend, the fire of love is not extinguished. Be not the wreckful siege of battering days that wear out summer’s breath, let it not be cold grip of encroaching death. Let them take the present time, and crown their love marking its prime, to bind hearts together for all eternity, never a stronger bond will there be.
Summer is the time of love.