And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along -
And hold the Sunshine in it's lap
And bow to everything -

And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls -
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing -

And even when it dies - to pass
In Odors so divine -
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep -
Or Spikenards, perishing -

And then, in Sovreign Barns to dwell -
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay -