Page:Poems, Household Edition, Emerson, 1904.djvu/129

 TO ELLEN AT THE SOUTH

green grass is bowing,

The morning wind is in it;

'T is a tune worth thy knowing,

Though it change every minute.

'T is 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.

Hark to the winning sound!

They summon thee, dearest,—

Saying, 'We have dressed for thee the ground,

Nor yet thou appearest.

'O hasten;' 't is our time,

Ere yet the red Summer

Scorch our delicate prime,

Loved of bee,—the tawny hummer.