A lichened cup he set against the side High up this mast, earth-stepped, that could not fail, But swung a little as a ship might ride, Keeping an easy balance in the gale; Slow-heaving like a gladiator's breast, Whose strength in combat feels an idle rest. Whether the cuckoo or the chaffinch most Do triumph in the issuing of their song? I say not this, but many a swelling boast They throw each at the other all day long. Soon as the nest had cradled eggs a-twin The jolly squirrel climbed to look therein. Adown the lane athwart this pleasant wood The broad-winged butterflies their solace sought; A green-necked pheasant in the sunlight stood, Nor could the rushes hide him as he thought. A humble-bee through fern and thistle made A search for lowly flowers in the shade. A thing of many wanderings, and loss, Like to Ulysses on his poplar raft, His treasure hid beneath the tunnelled moss Lest that a thief his labour steal with craft, Up the round hill, sheep-dotted, was his way, Zigzagging where some new adventure lay. 'My life and soul,' as if he were a Greek, His heart was Grecian in his greenwood fane; 'My life and soul,' through all the sunny week The chaffinch sang with beating heart amain, 'The humble-bee the wide wood-world may roam; One feather's breadth I shall not stir from home.' No note he took of what the swallows said About the firing of some evil gun, Nor if the butterflies were blue or red, For all his feelings were intent in one. The loving soul, a-thrill in all his nerves, A life immortal as a man's deserves.