Iv

The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower, Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art; The bumblebee, within the last half-hour, Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart; While in the barnyard, under shed and cart, Brood-hens have housed.--But I, who scorned thy power, Barometer of the birds,--like August there,-- Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair, Like some drenched truant, cower.