144
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,
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.
