242 
ARBOR DAY-MAN UAL. 
Ranging both worlds on lightest wings of wish, 
Will not distill the juices it has sucked 
To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, 
Except for him who hath the secret learned 
To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take 
The winds into his pulses. Hush! ’tis he ! 
My oriole, my glance of summer fire, 
Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, 
Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound 
About the bough to help his housekeeping,— 
Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, 
Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, 
Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, 
Divines the providence that hides and helps. 
Heave, ho ! Heave, ho ! he whistles as the twine 
Slackens its hold ; once more, now! and a flash 
' Lightens across the sunlight to the elm 
Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. 
Nor all his booty is the thread ; he trails 
My loosened thought with it along the air, 
And I must follow, would I ever find 
The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life. 
I care not how men trace their ancestry, 
To ape or Adam ; let them please their whim ; 
But I in June are midway to believe 
A tree among my far progenitors, 
Such sympathy is mine with all the race, 
Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet 
There is between us. Surely there are times 
When they consent to own me of their kin, 
And condescend to me, and call me cousin, 
Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time, 
Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills 
Moving the lips, though fruitless of the words. 
And I have many a lifelong leafy friend, 
Never estranged nor careful of my soul, 
That knows I hate the axe, and welcomes me 
Within his tent as if I were a bird. 
Among them one, an ancient willow, spreads 
Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all round 
His deep-ridged trunk with upward slant diverse. 
In outline like enormous beaker, fit 
