The Chipmunk
TO-day the green hill was at strife
With me; it robbed my feet of life.
The wind that loudly speaks his mind,
Said in my presence nothing kind.
The sky’s clear face was from me turned,
Behind a cloud his great fire burned.
An exile in his native cot,
Who finds his very name forgot,
Was I this afternoon, until
At the wood’s edge behind the hill,
A chipmunk flashed, and leapt a limb,
And took my heart away with him.
Give Me the Poorest Weed
GIVE me the poorest weed
To satisfy my spirit’s need.
The brownest blade of grass
Will know and greet me when I pass.
Of their own feeling wrought,
They live like simple, vital thought;
The mind could not invent
A better thing than Nature meant.