Think me not unkind and rude br That I walk alone in grove and glen; br I go to the god of the wood br To fetch his word to men. br br Tax not my sloth that I br Fold my arms beside the brook; br Each cloud that floated in the sky br Writes a letter in my book. br br Chide me not, laborious band, br For the idle flowers I brought; br Every aster in my hand br Goes home loaded with a thought. br br There was never mystery br But 'tis figured in the flowers; br Was never secret history br But birds tell it in the bowers. br br One harvest from thy field br Homeward brought the oxen strong; br A second crop thine acres yield, br Which I gather in a song.