Vii

My eyes are level with the grass, And up and down each slender steep I watch its tiny people pass. The sun has lulled me half asleep.

And all beneath my breath I sing ... This joy of mine is sweet to hold! Such treasure had the miser king Who brushed the very dew to gold.

Deep in the sunny grass I lie And breathe the garden scents wind-driven, So happy that if I should die They could not comfort me with Heaven.