Think me not unkind and rude That I walk alone in grove and glen;
I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men.
Tax not my sloth that I Fold my arms beside the brook;
Each cloud that floated in the sky Writes a letter in my book.
Chide me not, laborious band,
For the idle flowers I brought;
Every aster in my hand Goes home loaded with a thought.
There was never mystery But 'tis figured in the flowers;
Was never secret history But birds tell it in the bowers.
One harvest from thy field Homeward brought the oxen strong;
A second crop thine acres yield,
Which I gather in a song.
