Deficiency.

Ah, God! were I away, away,      By woodland-belted hills!     There might be more in Thy bright day      Than my poor spirit thrills.     The elder coppice, banks of blooms,      The spice-wood brush, the field     Of tumbled clover, and perfumes      Hot, weedy pastures yield.     The old rail-fence whose angles hold      Bright briar and sassafras,     Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and gold      Starred through the moss and grass.     The ragged path that winds unto      Lone cow-behaunted nooks,     Through brambles to the shade and dew      Of rocks and woody brooks.     To see the minnows turn and gleam      White sparkling bellies, all     Shoot in gray schools adown the stream      Let but a dead leaf fall.     The buoyant pleasure and delight      Of floating feathered seeds.     Capricious wanderers soft and white      Born of silk-bearing weeds.     Ah, God! were I away, away,      Among wild woods and birds!     There were more soul within Thy day      Than one might bless with words.