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 't is 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.