IV.
I cannot sing as Ovid sung,
My harp with rustic cords is strung;
No Hyblaean honey on my tongue
Was dropped by Plato's bees.
But I can chant a simple lay
To please myself, as well as they;
A carol caught from June and May,
And learned beneath the trees.
V.
O, I can sing the summer days,
When in New England's woodland ways,
We wandered till the sun's red haze
Came slanting through the boughs;
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