In My Wild Flights Of Fancy

In my wild flights of fancy I return to the hill
And I hear the distinctive babble of the clear flowing mountain rill
That to the bigger river in a great hurry flow
By the old wood down the high fields and by many a hedgerow
In my wild flights of fancy how nice to visualize
The lark above the mountain brow carolling at sunrise
And singing ever singing as he climbs up the sky
Till he becomes a tiny dot in the pupil of the eye,
In my wild flights of fancy I hear the chaffinch sing
In the green and leafy woodland sweet with the scents of Spring
And the hawthorns quite resplendent in their white blooms of the May
And the nestling birds are crying for food from dawn till gloam of day
And in my wild flights of fancy such things I hear and see
And the past I thought that I had left is still living within me.