Bokelskere.no

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;----on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.