And on the highest elm, a crow
His coal-black wings is sunning.
A close, green bud the Mayflower lies
Upon its mossy pillow;
And sweet and low the south wind blows,
And through the brown fields calling goes,
“Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!”
Soon red will bud the maple trees,
The bluebirds will be singing,
The yellow tassels in the breeze