Think me not unkind and rude 



Tliat I walk 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 arras 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 laden with a thought. 



There was never mystery 



But 'tis figured in the flowers ; 

 Was never secret history 



But birds tell it in the bowers. 



— Emerson. 



