In the quiet morning light,
Where shadows softly fade,
The English dawn takes flight,
In hues of gold displayed.

A symphony of whispering leaves,
In ancient oaks and pines,
The language of the breeze,
In rhythm with the times.

Through cobblestone and misty paths,
The tales of yore arise,
In every word, in every breath,
A legacy that never dies.

So let us weave our stories bright,
In prose and verse so fine,
Under the English dawn’s first light,
Our souls in words entwined.