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Waiting my choice to open with full breast,
And beg an alms of spring-time, ne'er denied

In-doors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods 40 Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year.

July breathes hot, sallows the crispy fields,
Curls up the wan leaves of the lilac-hedge,
And every eve cheats us with show of clouds

That braze the horizon's western rim, or hang 45 Motionless, with heaped canvas drooping idly,

Like a dim fleet by starving men besieged,
Conjectured half, and half descried afar,
Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip back
Adown the smooth curve of the oily sea.

50 But June is full of invitations sweet,
Forth from the chimney's yawn and thrice-read

tomes
To leisurely delights and sauntering thoughts
That brook no ceiling narrower than the blue.

The cherry, drest for bridal, at my pane 55 Brushes, then listens, Will he come? The bee,

All dusty as a miller, takes his toll
Of powdery gold, and grumbles. What a day
To sun me and do nothing! Nay, I think

Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes 60 The student's wiser business; the brain

That forages all climes to line its cells,
Ranging both worlds on lightest wings of wish,
Will not distil the juices it has sucked

To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, 65 Except for him who hath the secret learned

To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take 44. 1. e., that give a brazen hue and hardness to the westera sky at sunset.

The winds into his pulses. Hush! 't is he!
My oriole, my glance of summer fire,

Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, 70 Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound

About the bough to help his housekeeping, -
Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck,
Yet fearing me who laid it in his way,

Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs,
75 Divines the providence that hides and helps.

Heare, ho! Heare, ho! he wbistles as the twine
Slackens its hold; once more, now ! and a flash
Lightens across the sunlight to the elm

Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. 8. Nor all nis booty is the thread; he trails

My loosened thought with it along the air,
And I must follow, would I ever find
The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life.

I care not how men trace their ancestry, 85 To ape or Adam; let them please their whim;

But I in June am midway to believe
A tree among my far progenitors,
Such sympathy is mine with all the race,

Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet 90 There is between us. Surely there are times

When they consent to own me of their kin,
And condescend to me, and call me cousin,
Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time,

Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills 95 Moving the lips, though fruitless of the words.

And I have many a life-long leafy friend,
Never estranged nor careful of my soul,
That knows I hate the axe, and welcomes me
Within his tent as if I were a bird,
Or other free companion of the earth,

Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men.
Among them one, an ancient willow, spreads
Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all round

His deep-ridged trunk with upward slant diverse, 105 In outline like enormous beaker, fit

For hand of Jotun, where, 'mid snow and mist
He holds unwieldy revel. This tree, spared,
I know not by what grace, - for in the blood

Of our New World subduers lingers yet
To Hereditary feud with trees, they being

(They and the red-man most) our fathers' foes,
Is one of six, a willow Pleiades,
The seventh fallen, that lean along the brink

Where the steep upland dips into the marsh, 115 Their roots, like molten metal cooled in flowing,

Stiffened in coils and runnels down the bank.
The friend of all the winds, wide-armed he towers
And glints his steely aglets in the sun,

Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom
120 Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when a shoal

Of devious minnows wheel from where a pike
Lurks balanced ’neath the lily-pads, and whirl
A rood of silver bellies to the day.

Alas! no acorn from the British oak 125 'Neath which slim fairies tripping wrought those

rings
Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside life
Did with the invisible spirit of Nature wed,

106. Jotun is a giant in the Scandinavian mythology.

112. The Pleiades were seven daughters of Atlas and Pleiona; w escape the hunter Orion, they begged to be changed in forin, and were made a constellation in the heavens. Only six were visible to the naked eye, so the seventh was held to be a lost Pleiad, and several stories were told to account for the loss.

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Was ever planted here! No darnel fancy

Might choke one useful blade in Puritan fields; 130 With horn and hoof the good old Devil came,

The witch' broomstick was not contraband,
But all tb-i superstition had of fair,
Or piety of native sweet, was doomed.

And if there be who nurse unholy faiths,
135 Fearing their god as if he were a wolf

That snuffed round every home and was not seen,
There should be some to watch and keep alive
All beautiful beliefs. And such was that,

By solitary shepherd first surmised
140 Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some maid

Of royal stirp, that silent came and vanished,
As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor dared
Confess a mortal name,

that faith which gave
A Hamadryad to each tree; and I
145 Will hold it true that in this willow dwells

The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe,
Of ancient Hospitality, long since,
With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of doors.

In June 't is good to lie beneath a tree
150 While the blithe season comforts every sense,

Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart,
Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares,
Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow

Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up
55 And tenderly lines some last-year robin's nest.
There muse I of old times, old hopes, old

friends, Old friends! The writing of those words has borne My fancy backward to the gracious past,

The generous past, when all was possible, 160 For all was then untried; the years between

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