How the woodchuck digs his cell, Where the whitest lilies blow, O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night Whispering at the garden wall, Still as my horizon grew, O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, — Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Still memory to a gray-haired man He lives to learn, in life's hard school, Like her, because they love him. MAUD MULLER BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, A wish, that she hardly dared to own, The Judge rode slowly down the lane, He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And blushed as she gave it, looking down "Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And listened, while a pleased surprise At last, like one who for delay Still memory to a gray-haired man He lives to learn, in life's hard school, Like her, - because they love him. MAUD MULLER BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, A wish, that she hardly dared to own, |