Of the black wasp's cunning way, For, eschewing books and tasks, Oh for boyhood's time of June, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, Cheerly, then, my little man, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 5 Made to tread the mills of toil, Quick and treacherous sands of sin. MAUD MULLER 10 Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee But when she glanced to the far-off town, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest The Judge rode slowly down the lane, He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees to greet the maid, |