A verdant carpet smoothly laid
⁠Doth oft invite
My silent steps; thereon the sun
With silver thread of dew hath spun
Devices rare—the warp of shade,
⁠The weft of light.
 
Here dwell my chosen books, whose leaves
⁠With healing breath
The ache of discontent assuage,
And speak from each illumined page
The patience that my soul reprieves
⁠From inward death;
 
Some perish with a season's wind,
And some endure;
One robes itself in snow, and one
In raiment of the rising sun
Bordered with gold; in all I find
⁠God's signature.
 
As on my grassy couch I lie,
⁠From hedge and tree
Musicians pipe; or if the heat
Subdue the birds, one crooneth sweet
Whose labour is a lullaby—
⁠The slumbrous bee.