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.