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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
By William Wordsworth
Art by Carolyn Pavey
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Text and image source: Petie Barre https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid02TuWTeGhJAYYEEf9mfvMiPfCsaNjLt25CpbBKqRHR28a2iGNrpjcWxsc1YvqcYgJJl&id=100032362197041&mibextid=Nif5oz
Purplerays 