I forget — to stain with sorrow

This clear-colored holiday.
Yesterday and the to-morrow
Have no robin on their spray.
Can you tell me where I'm going, winding down the woodland way?

No, Sir Squirrel, you 've no notion,
With your bushy tail a-swell.
You may make a fine commotion
In the branches where you dwell.
You may chatter till the nuts fall. I can keep my secret well.

Holding back these saplings pliant,
I can catch a perfume sweet ;
I can see my rock, the giant,
Crouching in the noonday heat,
With the last pale Mayflowers dying clustered round his shaggy feet.

And above there is the highway,
And beyond there is the church.
They will not be looking my way,
Even if this friendly birch
Did not shield me as completely as a bird upon her perch.

Little dreameth she who lingers
Here, and thou — thou dreamest less,