A Summer Mood

I LAY me in the growing grass,
A vagrant loving vagrancy;
About me kindred fellows throng,
A very reckless company,—

Gay people of the crowded air,
Who follow Joy’s recruiting drums ;
Nor thrift, nor any thorn, they leave
To-morrow till to-morrow comes.

Who gathers all, would gather more ;
Who little hath, hath need of none;
Who wins a race will long to win
Another that is never won.

I fling me in the grass, content
That not a blade belongs to me,
And take no thought for mowing days,—
A vagrant wed to vagrancy.