The 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.
‘ 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 that we perfume
Sings a tune that's worth the knowing.’