Even the insect tumult had some sense,

And every sound a happy eloquence;

And more to me than wisest books can teach,

The wind and water said; whose words did reach

My soul, addressing their magnificent speech,

Raucous and rushing, from the old mill-wheel,

That made the rolling mill-cogs snore and reel,

Like some old ogre in a fairy-tale

Nodding above his meat and mug of ale.

How memory takes me back the ways that lead—

As when a boy—through woodland and through mead!

To orchards fruited; or to fields in bloom;

Or briary fallows, like a mighty room,

Through which the winds swing censers of perfume,

And where deep blackberries spread miles of fruit;—

A splendid feast, that stayed the ploughboy's foot

When to the tasseling acres of the corn

He drove his team, fresh in the primrose morn;

And from the liberal banquet, nature lent,

Took dewy handfuls as he whistling went.—

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