And the green grassy edges of the lane we travel through.
And then we'll canter on to catch the bubble of the thistle,
As it bumps among the butterflies, and glimmers down the sun,
To leave us laughing, all content to hear the robin whistle,
Or guess what Katydid is saying little Katy's done.
And pausing here a minute, where we hear the squirrel chuckle
As he darts from out the underbrush and scampers up the tree,
We will gather buds and locust-blossoms, leaves and honeysuckle,
To wreathe around our foreheads, riding into Used-to-be;
For here's the very rim of it that we go swinging over—