THE MAY TREE
A garden in the month of May,
The fading of a golden day
Upon the tulip flowers.
An anthem sung by little birds,
The sigh more eloquent than words
Of earth to listening hours.
And shadows ... like the fringe that lies
On cheek, at close of drowsy eyes,
And paths, grown damp with dew;
And secret places, where to tread
Were to disturb the bridal bed
Of creatures born anew.
And fairer than each living thing
That stirs with longings of the Spring,
A May tree, bearing flower.
Like some young nymph the sunlight charms
She stretches forth her slender arms,
New decked with leafy dower.
While through her wondrous, living form
The sap of life leaps strong and warm,
Awaking from repose
The folded buds to know the Spring,
It seems I almost hear them sing
For rapture as it flows.
Ay! and it seems as though my heart
Strained upward, but to take some part
In that sweet hymn of praise;
As though my pulses quicker beat,
To see perfection so complete
Revealéd to my gaze.
As though the problem of unrest
Were solved at last, in this behest
To silently fulfil;
And deeper still, my soul perceives
The mighty Presence that conceives
Such beauty at Its will.