I LAY upon the summer grass.
— A gold-haired, sunny child came by,
And looked at me, as loath to pass,
— With questions in her lingering eye.

She stopped and wavered, then drew near,
— (Ah! the pale gold around her head!)
And o'er my shoulder stopped to peer.
— " Why do you read? " she said.

" I read a poet of old time,
— Who sang through all his living hours —
Beauty of earth — the streams, the flowers —
— And stars, more lovely than his rhyme.

" And now I read him, since men go,
— Forgetful of these sweetest things;
Since he and I love brooks that flow,
— And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings! "

She stared at me with laughing look,
— Then clasped her hands upon my knees:
" How strange to read it in a book!
— I could have told you all of these! "