The Apology

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.