Upon a tuft of meadow grass, While thy loved-one tends the nest, Thou swayest as the breezes pass, Unburthening thine o'erfull breast Of the crowded songs that fill it, Just as joy may choose to will it. Lord of thy love and liberty, The blithest bird of merry May, Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me, That say as plain as eye can say-- "Here sit we, here in the summer weather, I and my modest mate together; Whatever your wise thoughts may be, Under that gloomy old pine tree, We do not value them a feather." Now, leaving earth and me behind, Thou beatest up against the wind, Or, floating slowly down before it, Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest And thy bridal love-song utterest, Raining showers of music o'er it, Weary never, still thou trillest, Spring-gladsome lays, As of moss-rimmed water-brooks Murmuring through pebbly nooks In quiet summer days. My heart with happiness thou fillest, I seem again to be a boy Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover, O'er the bending grass-tops hover, Quivering thy wings for joy. There's something in the apple-blossom, The greening grass and bobolink's song, That wakes again within my bosom Feelings which have slumbered long. As long, long years ago I wandered, I seem to wander even yet, The hours the idle school-boy squandered, The man would die ere he'd forget. O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, Nodding his gray head toward my books, I dearer prize the lore I tasted With you, among the trees and brooks, Than all that I have gained since then From learnèd books or study-withered men! Nature, thy soul was one with mine, And, as a sister by a younger brother Is loved, each flowing to the other, Such love for me was thine. Or wert thou not more like a loving mother With sympathy and loving power to heal, Against whose heart my throbbing heart I'd lay And moan my childish sorrows all away, Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal? Was not the golden sunset a dear friend? Found I no kindness in the silent moon, And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend, Low singing evermore their pleasant tune? Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods-- No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes? Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, Blind leaders had not _taught me_ to be wise. Dear hours! which now again I over-live, Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive Of my young heart came laden with rich prize, Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be My spirit's food in days more wintery. Yea, yet again ye come! ye come! And, like a child once more at home After long sojourning in alien climes, I lie upon my mother's breast, Feeling the blessedness of rest, And dwelling in the light of other times.