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.

--

--

On my way to be an indie developer, creator creating a focus on better living.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Achuth hadnoor

On my way to be an indie developer, creator creating a focus on better living.