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.