They say that love is a fragile thing,
a limits wing, a magic ring made of gold.
They say that love is a bird in flight,
a gleam of light, a star too bright to behold.
Tell me, tell me, tell me, oh child of the moon.
Is it as they say, must love slip away too soon.
Tell me, Rima, where are the meadows of June.
Speaking with her eyes, softly she replies:
I know a place, where green mansions are
as near or far, as any star up above.
And in this land of eternal spring
where hummingbirds can learn to sing,
Green grow the mansions of love.