Work? Not to-day! Ah! no—that were to do
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The gracious face of heaven a surly wrong,
Bright day so manifestly made for song,
And sweep of freedom's wings into the blue.
Divinely idle, rather let us lie,
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And watch the lordly unindustrious sky,
Nor trail the smoke of little busy cares
Across its calm—Work? Not to-day! not I!
Work? Why, another year . . . one never knows
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But this the flowering last of all our years;
Which of us can be sure of next year's rose?
And I, that have so loved them all my days,
Not yet have learned the names of half the flowers,
Nor half enough have listened to the birds.
Nay! while the marvel of the May is ours,
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Earth's book of lovely hieroglyphic words
Let's read together, each green letter spell,
And each illuminated miracle,
Decking the mystic text with blue and gold—
That Book of Beauty where all Truth is told.
Let's watch the dogwood, holding silver trays
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Of blossom out across the woodland ways,
Whiter than breast of any mortal girl's;
And hark! yon bird flinging its song like pearls,
Sad as all lovely things fore-doomed to die—
Work? Not to-day! Ah! no—not you, not I.