APRIL.
I am the month of transition. My breast
Heaves with sweet, delicate hope, that beguiles
Dreamy Earth into smiles.
Through woodlands deserted I go on my quest,
And summon the blood-root and shad-bush to flower
Though they fade in an hour.
I drop gentle rain on the faded, brown grasses,
And loosen the soil for all tender, green shoots,
To push up from their roots.
I summon the birds, and where’er my foot passes,
Sleeping Nature arouses itself at my call.
I am helpful to all.
While no ecstacy’s mine, I am never distressed,
But tranquilly wander, to fate reconciled.
I am April, the mild.
MAY.
I am the month of gay Summer’s beginning,
When earth with its verdure smiles up at the sky,
And the mayflowers shy,
And sun-loving blossoms, their way to light winning
Through strewn leaves of autumn, mute emblems of death,
Perfume with their breath,
The zephyrs released from their fetters of frost.
The streams murmur cheerily under their banks
Their melodious thanks
For sweet freedom regained, as they flow and are lost
In the broad, sunny river, that rushes along
To the sea, with a song.
Chill Winter’s forgot, with its woe and its sinning.
Youth leaps in my veins—I am young, I am gay—
I am love-kindling May.
JUNE.
I am the month of sweet, virginal joy,
When Earth, as the sun its first passion discloses,
Blushes with roses,
When all things are new, and nothing can cloy.
The birds, in a cloudland of leafage concealed,
By their songs are revealed.
All is young, all is love. In the shadowy vales,
In woodland and meadow, all Nature’s awake.
At the wind’s kiss, the lake
Breaks forth into smiles; but as yet passion fails
To weary itself. Soul is searching for soul,
And has not reached its goal.
Life leaping to life doth each moment employ,
And love doth all Nature’s grand chorus attune.
I am virginal June.
JULY.
I am the month of warm, passionate love,
When Earth silent lies, with shy longings opprest,
While soft sighs stir her breast.
All unclasped is her zone, and the Sun’s warm lips prove
Her lips ruby treasures, and make her soul his
With many a kiss.
I wander abroad in the murmurous hours,
While the silvery moonbeams sift down on the scene,
Rustling leafage between.
I whisper of joy to the slumbering flowers,
As, with petals close folded, like child hands in prayer,
They rest on the air,
And I drop cooling dews from the clear sky above
On the moist brow of Earth, as still she doth sigh.
I am July.