THE WINDMILL COUNTRY

There is a country, so they say, Where windmills grow like trees; Where arms instead of branches, reach To meet the coming breeze; And all the little children there, With clumping wooden shoes, May seek their friendly shade to play As often as they choose. How strange ’twould be, when winter comes, And all the other trees Are shedding leaves of brown and red To gather as we please, To see the windmills drop their arms, And all across the land The little girls and boys come out To find them on the sand.