The Little Green Bird

At the skirt of a rose-embowered path,
Just a little apart from the village,
Where the woods meet the meadows,
And briars blush their pale blooms;
Where the ferns lay lovingly
Upon the mossy way, and tall grass tufts
Wave in graceful undulation; I sit,
And the little green bird yon is swaying
With abandon, singing with abandon!
And the din of the day and its turmoils,
The chattering of men, the wrangling words
Of argument, the crashing of huge constructions
Laboring-materials without souls,
Who with their grind produce man's labor-
Growl out their complaint to the day, and the
Mockery of men in their phantom-following,
Each mad in pursuit of some fancy!
All this is apart.
Let them be at their tasks-I can forget them;
For at the skirt of a rose-embowered path,
Just a little apart from the village,
Where the woods meet the meadows,
And the briars blush their pale blooms,
Where the ferns lay lovingly
Upon the mossy way, and tall grass tufts
Wave in graceful undulation, I sit
And the little green bird yon is swaying
With abandon', singing with abandon!