Run by the cerulean bluest of hue,
how soft, for a touch, does the wind call anew?
A day for a moment in the seasonal pass,
but soft, in this hour, for it must be the last.
Wither and wither for hither be done,
the river won’t flow through the waves of the sun,
but where is the kiss of the torrents of spring?
Softly abiding though settled to sting?
And whence it returns can stillness remain?
Through mornings of dew or afternoon rain?
I’ve been on the emerald through which it will sway,
Down by the shamrocks that were all whisked away,
and wither to then? I surely can’t say,
perhaps to the coast or the sapphire bay,
to answer the wind as it calls us anew,
and run by cerulean bluest of hue.