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Dingle DellDown in Dingle Dell, where the tiny pixies dwell, and the water fairies read with glee. The hammering of elves, as they mend their bookshelves, makes even the largest animal flee. Wizards cast their spells with the aid of silver bells, and the humming of the bee. Dragons read their rhymes to the subtle sound of chimes, while perched gently in the bough of a tree. Trolls sing and dance as if in a trance, by the water’s joyful song of glee. Trees spread their wings and move as if launched by springs; at any fright, they flee. Flowers sleep in Church, falling off their perch, waiting for the coming of the bee. The Sun shines bright, both day and night, leaving shade to the whim of a tree. It was there I learned to read, with such lightning speed, that all around me laughed with glee. To this day I note that pages seem to float from books that hide and flee. Pixies in the Dell would stop to hear my spell, weaving to the rhythm of the bee. Dragons took their flight in pure delight, relaxing their burden on the tree. As my words took shape, forever could they sate the gentle sounds of glee. For as is known by wizards all, words of magic are very tall and hold all fast from flee. Soon my words began to fill the books that fairies spill on any ground that might be. Once more elves added bookshelves, cut by trolls from the boughs of a dragon's tree. Now down in the Dell, where the pixies once did dwell, stands a printery by the name of Glee. With the hammering of shelves, they have deafened themselves, and all seek to flee. The water fairies tell of the tiny silver bell and the leaving of the bee. The dragon’s time is dead, and all but me have fled, for the words of hope have taken the last tree.

Dengle DillUp in Dengle Dill where the dragon once did trill, and elves delighted in each tree. Flowers rebuild their Church with their endless search for the second coming of the bee. Wizards promise law, never doubting that one flaw that lets the forest flee. Trolls spend their time looking for the chimes to rekindle their lost glee. The pixies have all grown, and like so many flown in search for the shade of a tree. Water fairies sell, what they cannot hope to quell, in trust of confronting the bee. Though the Sun shines bright, dark clouds make day into night, so all the world must flee. The valleys are no more than salt upon the shore, and echoes of lost glee. In our search for words to read, we have taken the very last seed of the last elusive tree. The words of magic promised all, we never saw that we could fall, without the wings of a bee. Knowledge that elusive gift has left so much rubble through which to sift, and now we wonder should we flee? But the darkest clouds so they say, are no more than shades of grey, so there is yet hope for glee. To reverse our path, at last, we must build ourselves a mast, to reach the height of a tree. The elves must be shown that bookshelves must first be grown to care for the bee. When the world begins to green, life will once more be seen, and there will be no need to flee. Then will trolls begin to dance, and dragons once more prance, while flowers sing with glee. From the height of the new mast, we will see beyond our past, that balance lay in the bough of a tree. Though a dragon is very tall, they do not compare large or small to the humming of a bee. Rhymes and words have their place but do not think of it as a race, from which to flee. All the world is a guide, and all our cannot hide, one eternal song of glee.