IDLENESS.

The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade Of the fast flying clouds across my book Passes with delicate change. My merry fire

Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep, And looks into my face as if she felt Like me the gentle influence of the rain.

Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes, And sometimes listening to the faster fall Of the large drops, or rising with the stir Of an unbidden thought, have walked awhile

With the slow steps of indolence, my room, And then sat down composedly again To my quaint book of olden poetry. It is a kind of idleness, I know;

And I am said to be an idle man — And it is very true. I love to go Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye Rest on the human faces that pass by,

Each with its gay or busy interest; And then I muse upon their lot, and read Many a lesson in their changeful cast, And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight

Of human beings were humanity. And I am better after it, and go More gratefully to my rest, and feel a love Stirring my heart to every living thing,

And my low prayer has more humility, And I sink lightlier to my dreams — and this, ‘ Tis very true, is only idleness! I love to go and mingle with the young

In the gay festal room — when every heart Is beating faster than the merry tune, And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks

Flushed with the beautiful motion of the dance. ‘ Tis sweet, in the becoming light of lamps, To watch a brow half shaded, or a curl Playing upon a neck capriciously,

Or, unobserved, to watch in its delight, The earnest countenance of a child. I love To look upon such things, and I can go Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams

For their fast coming years, and speak of them Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad With a benevolent joy — and this, I know, To the world's eye, is only idleness!

And when the clouds pass suddenly away, And the blue sky is like a newer world, And the sweet growing things — forest and flower, Humble and beautiful alike — are all

Breathing up odors to the very heaven — Or when the frost has yielded to the sun In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist Lies like a silver lining on the sky,

And the clear air exhilarates, and life Simply, is luxury — and when the hush Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on, And the birds settle to their nests, and stars

Spring in the upper sky, and there is not A sound that is not low and musical — At all these pleasant seasons I go out With my first impulse guiding me, and take

Woodpath, or stream, or sunny mountain side, And, in my recklessness of heart, stray on, Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves, And happy with the fair and blessed world —

And this,‘ tis true, is only idleness! And I should love to go up to the sky, And course the heaven like stars, and float away Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay

In their swift journey — and‘ twould be a joy To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know The tribes of its unfathomable depths —

Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea! And I should love to issue with the wind On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth, With its broad continents and islands green,

Like to the passing of a presence on!— And this,‘ tis true, were only idleness!