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.

Viscaria