Could I pass all my life in adoring Saint May!
Through the weary dull week, as it rolls on apace,
I'm haunted by thoughts of that tender young face;
And oft, O how oft, does the vision arise—
The pureness and truth of those eloquent eyes!
And I long for the hour, and I count on the day,
When I sit at a distance and worship Saint May!
No doubt you'll be vastly surprised when you're told
Her name, in the Calendar, ne'er was enrolled—
They prattled of "May," the sweet sisterly pair,