The Grass so little has to do —
A Sphere of simple Green —
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain —
And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along —
And hold the Sunshine in its 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 Sovereign Barns to dwell —
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay —
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