Is dreaming a dream sublime,
For study's a wrong, and school a sin,
When the joys of woods and fields begin,
And it's just birds'-nesting time.

He dreams of a nook by the world unguessed,
Where the thrush's song is sung,
And the dainty yellowbird's fairy nest,
Lined with the fluff from the cattail's crest,
'Mid the juniper boughs is hung;
And further on, by the elder hedge,
Where the turtles come out to sleep,
The marsh-hen builds, by the brooklet's edge,
Her warm, wet home in the swampy sedge,
'Mid the shadows so dark and deep.

He knows of the spot by the old stone wall,
Where the sunlight dapples the glade,
And the sweet wild-cherry blooms softly fall,
And hid in the meadow-grass rank and tall,
The "Bob-white's" eggs are laid.
He knows, where the sea-breeze sobs and sings,
And the sand-hills meet the brine,
The clamorous crows, with their whirring wings,
Tell of their treasure that sways and swings
In the top of the tasselled pine.

* * * * *

And so he dreamed, with a happy face,