Buttercup yellow wings are fluttering by,
Sol's heat bursts from a glacier-blue sky;
and for once I don't feel myself
the mote in God's eye.
Songbirds are chattering their gossip and news,
some children are running, carrying their shoes,
and I'm smelling the blossom
like the perfume that you use.
Everything's sharper than a surgeon's blade
you could cut diamonds with the edge of the shade,
and here it would be heaven
if some love were made.
Everything is vibrating, everything is clear,
winter has been banished with its dreary blear,
and you know, it's almost perfect,
except that you're not here.