IN MAY
To you,—you beggars in the forests proud,—
To pastures free, my hasting foot returns!
The May is come! It smiles and laughs aloud—
For Love's desire, freedom's bliss, it yearns.
Erased the marks of city slavery,
Here where the sun gleams gold through azure hours—
Here wrests the spirit from all bondage free,
The fields grown green and the syringa flowers!
Storms only, brought my youthful morning red,
And night of soul and wilderness of pains—
All in my breast is hushed and numb and dead,
The pulsing fever stopped within my veins;
Yet here, where Nature winds a wreath for me,
The arms stretch forth,—the weary glance devours—
And the arrested soul exults and sings,
The fields grow green and the syringa flowers!