Or call up old rememberings from sleep;
Then pluck with careless hand
The ripe, red berries of the winter-green,
That blush like rubies on the verdant steep.
I watch the wild bees from my cool retreat
Hum tunefully around the blue harebell,
Before they enter to extract the sweet
That lieth hidden in each fragrant cell.
The small ground-squirrels leave their dwellings dark
In the black, slaty soil, and gambol oft