For me a basket and a book

Where cooling hemlocks grow;

And, in the deep of wooded nooks,

The spikes of cardinal glow.

A book to bring but not to read—

Enough to know it near,

To turn a leaf I do not need,

The song is with me here.

A bird-note comes adown the wood,

It seems to stillness wed;

A tap, then gleam of scarlet hood

High in the tree o'erhead.

The Indian-pipe is waxen stemmed;

The squirrels near me play;

While on this bank by mosses gemmed

I dream the hours away.