The Apology
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.
