Wow! What a meadow is this,
To think, I did not look up from below,
In the woodland Manor Pits,
I hung my head down low,
In this rocky culvert water-hole.
Never did I know!
So close to the Great Blue Hill,
The crickets jumping everywhich way,
Like driving into snow,
The purple iron **** not bending at all,
" Excuse you good sir,"
From these gentlemen so tall.
Who's down there in those yellow flowers,
Sniveling their nose at me?
The snooty shrew, in the partridge pea.
Is that a Bobolink? surfing the grassy red awning,
In the bright August dawning.
With no need of a tree.
Stick my face inside a world,
Of pink pye ****,
The Bumble and the Honey dont mind me.
Let them come and register all the grass and flowers to vote,
Where shall your address be when the wind shall blow?
Have the policeman chase the laughter–
And the laughter scatter low,
Through the hare bells below the Bobolink,
In the shooting cricket snow.
Come bring your clipboard,
Chase the breeze unknown,
Would you like more blazing star?
Speak into the bee laden microphone,
Form a line!Walk abreast!
Forward march!
To find the cottontail with fixed bayonets,
It escapes through pantaloons,
Like the red admiral butterfly from the net.
Give a sermon from the pulpit of shining golden rod,
For the mysterious and unquantifiable beauty of God,
Warn against the liquorice hyssop's sting,
A Bumble bee up your shorts,
From all night bivoucking.
I would not know which– to be raptured to or from–
This meadow to the west of the great Blue in the August sun,
Never did I even know that hill was even this nigh,
Until upon crouching at the culvert brook–
I held my head up high.
