But it is a god, Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky. Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor, Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, forever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved. Cling with life to the maid; First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem. Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods arrive. TO ELLEN, AT THE SOUTH. THE green grass is bowing, "Tis a tune worth thy knowing, 'Tis a tune of the spring; Every year plays it over To the robin on the wing, O'er ten thousand, thousand acres, 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; '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, |