The Pan Pipes that in dead Grass, long have silent lain, make New!
Let Leaves shoot quivering Tongues out, Love's Questionings in Play;
And whisp'ring to each other, Love's Wrangling vain, make New.
Hark! How the Morning Breezes, at rosy Dawn all call:
Up! Up! O Friend, 'tis Spring-time: the Soul's glad Reign, make New!
Behold the Spring in Glory! O thou Alchemist of Flowers,
Smelt the fiery Glow to Blossoms; our World, again, make New!
Revolving in Mystic Dance
XV.
Come! Come! Thou art the Soul, the Soul so dear, Revolving!