To Ellen, At the South

The green grass is bowing,

The morning wind is in it;

'Tis a tune worth thy knowing,

Though it change every minute.

'Tis a tune of the spring;

Every year plays it over

To the robin on the wing,

To the pausing lover.

O'er ten thousand thousand acres

Goes light the nimble zephyr,

The flowers—tiny sect of Shakers—

Worship him ever.

Hark to the winning sound!

They summon thee, dearest,—

Saying, "We have drest for thee the ground,

Nor yet thou appearest.

"O hasten, 'tis our time,

Ere yet the red Summer

Scorch our delicate prime,

Loved of bee,—the tawny hummer.

"O pride of thy race!

Sad, in sooth, it were to ours,

If our brief tribe miss thy face,

We poor New England flowers.

"Fairest, choose the fairest members

Of our lithe society;

June's glories and September's

Show our love and piety.

"Thou shalt command us all,—

April's cowslip, summer's clover

To the gentian in the fall,

Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.

"O come, then, quickly come,

We are budding, we are blowing,

And the wind which we perfume

Sings a tune that's worth thy knowing."