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