LITMIR.BIZ

      Balm for each blade of grass: the Hours prepare

      A festival each weed's invited to.

      Each bee is drunken with the honied air:

      And all the air is eloquent with blue.

      The wet hay glitters, and the harvester

      Tinkles his scythe, – as twinkling as the dew, —

      That shall not spare

      Blossom or brier in its sweeping path;

      And, ere it cut one swath,

      Rings them they die, and tells them to prepare.

      What is the spice that haunts each glen and glade?

      A Dryad's lips, who slumbers in the shade?

      A Faun, who lets the heavy ivy-wreath

      Slip to his thigh as, reaching up, he pulls

      The chestnut blossoms in whole bosomfuls?

      A sylvan Spirit, whose sweet mouth doth breathe

      Her viewless presence near us, unafraid?

      Or troops of ghosts of blooms, that whitely wade

      The brook? whose wisdom knows no other song

      Than that the bird sings where it builds beneath