Rhymes of a Child's World by Miriam Clark Potter - HTML preview

 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.