The bees in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay:
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man’s breath to-day.

The bees and I are alone in the grass: the air is so very still
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill.

Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost the sounds I cannot hear—
That, when no other sound is...