MAY.
Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours,
And dreamingly they glide,
As if they floated like the leaves
Upon a silver tide.
The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,
And the waters flow to music,
Like a tune with pleasant words.
The verdure of the meadow-land
Is creeping to the hills;
The sweet, blue-bosom’d violets
Are blowing by the rills;
The lilac has a load of balm
For every wind that stirs,
And the larch stands green and beautiful,
Amid the somber firs.
There’s perfume upon every wind—
Music in every tree—
Dews for the moisture-loving flowers—
Sweets for the sucking bee;
The sick come forth for the healing South;
The young are gathering flowers;
And life is a tale of poetry,
That is told by golden hours.
If ’tis not a true philosophy,
That the spirit, when set free,
Still lingers about its olden home,
In the flower and in the tree,
It is very strange that our pulses thrill
At the sight of a voiceless thing,
And our hearts yearn so with tenderness
In the beautiful time of spring.
N. P. Willis.