Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/156

144 TO ELLEN,

AT THE SOUTH.

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,

And to the pausing lover.

O'er ten thousand, thousand acres,

Goes light the nimble zephyr;

The Flowers—tiny sect of Shakers—

Worship him ever.