"Quit, green-clad hermit, quit thy 
cave, 
And taste this morn the fresh'ning 
breeze; 
Their baby cones the larches wave, 
A summer gladness holds the 
trees—” 
Thus these gay flutt’rers; — I distrust, — 
As birds of old experience must. 
“ What boots it in that darksome cell, 
While far o'erhead May’s azure 
dome 
Is stretched, morose and lone to 
dwell?" 
I laugh my loudest ; 'tis sweet 
home: 
And soon around this gnarled grey 
stem 
My brood will crawl, I guiding them. 
" Seek shelter, frivolous ones, afar ! 
My call prolonged — ha, ha, !- 
brings rain, 
Begone ! nor vex with wordy war 
My forest-precincts ; I would fain 
Their peace enjoy, and when I will 
Among them use my pickaxe bill.” 
