the apology

think me not unkind and rude,

that i walk alone
in grove and glen;

i go to the
god of the wood

to fetch his
word to men.

tax not my sloth that i

fold my arms
beside the brook;

each cloud
that floated in the sky

writes a
letter in my book.

chide me not, laborious band,

for the idle
flowers i brought;

every aster
in my hand

goes home
loaded with a thought.

there was never mystery,

but 'tis
figured in the flowers,

was never
secret history,

but birds
tell it in the bowers.

one harvest from thy field

homeward
brought the oxen strong;

a second crop
thine acres yield,

which i gather in a
song.

- Ralph
Waldo Emerson