May-Day | Page 3

expectance sweet,
As if to-morrow should redeem
The vanished rose of
evening's dream.
By houses lies a fresher green,
On men and maids a ruddier mien,

As if time brought a new relay
Of shining virgins every May,
And Summer came to

ripen maids
To a beauty that not fades.
The ground-pines wash their rusty green,
The maple-tops their crimson tint,
On the
soft path each track is seen,
The girl's foot leaves its neater print.
The pebble loosened
from the frost
Asks of the urchin to be tost.
In flint and marble beats a heart,
The
kind Earth takes her children's part,
The green lane is the school-boy's friend,
Low
leaves his quarrel apprehend,
The fresh ground loves his top and ball,
The air rings
jocund to his call,
The brimming brook invites a leap,
He dives the hollow, climbs the
steep.
The youth reads omens where he goes,
And speaks all languages the rose.

The wood-fly mocks with tiny noise
The far halloo of human voice;
The perfumed
berry on the spray
Smacks of faint memories far away.
A subtle chain of countless
rings
The next unto the farthest brings,
And, striving to be man, the worm
Mounts
through all the spires of form.
I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth,
Stepping daily onward north
To greet staid
ancient cavaliers
Filing single in stately train.
And who, and who are the travellers?

They were Night and Day, and Day and Night,
Pilgrims wight with step forthright.
I
saw the Days deformed and low,
Short and bent by cold and snow;
The merry Spring
threw wreaths on them,
Flower-wreaths gay with bud and bell;
Many a flower and
many a gem,
They were refreshed by the smell,
They shook the snow from hats and
shoon,
They put their April raiment on;
And those eternal forms,
Unhurt by a
thousand storms,
Shot up to the height of the sky again,

And danced as merrily as
young men.
I saw them mask their awful glance
Sidewise meek in gossamer lids;

And to speak my thought if none forbids.
It was as if the eternal gods,
Tired of their
starry periods,
Hid their majesty in cloth
Woven of tulips and painted moth.
On
carpets green the maskers march
Below May's well-appointed arch,
Each star, each
god, each grace amain,
Every joy and virtue speed,
Marching duly in her train,
And
fainting Nature at her need
Is made whole again.
'T was the vintage-day of field and wood,
When magic wine for bards is brewed;

Every tree and stem and chink
Gushed with syrup to the brink.
The air stole into the
streets of towns,
And betrayed the fund of joy
To the high-school and medalled boy:

On from hall to chamber ran,
From youth to maid, from boy to man,
To babes, and
to old eyes as well.
'Once more,' the old man cried, 'ye clouds,
Airy turrets
purple-piled,
Which once my infancy beguiled,
Beguile me with the wonted spell.
I
know ye skilful to convoy
The total freight of hope and joy
Into rude and homely
nooks,
Shed mocking lustres on shelf of books,
On farmer's byre, on meadow-pipes,

Or on a pool of dancing chips.
I care not if the pomps you show
Be what they
soothfast appear,
Or if yon realms in sunset glow
Be bubbles of the atmosphere.

And if it be to you allowed
To fool me with a shining cloud,
So only new griefs are
consoled
By new delights, as old by old,
Frankly I will be your guest,
Count your
change and cheer the best.
The world hath overmuch of pain,--
If Nature give me joy

again,
Of such deceit I'll not complain.'
Ah! well I mind the calendar,
Faithful through a thousand years,
Of the painted race
of flowers,
Exact to days, exact to hours,
Counted on the spacious dial
Yon
broidered zodiac girds.
I know the pretty almanac
Of the punctual coming-back,
On
their due days, of the birds.
I marked them yestermorn,
A flock of finches darting

Beneath the crystal arch,
Piping, as they flew, a march,--
Belike the one they used in
parting
Last year from yon oak or larch;
Dusky sparrows in a crowd,
Diving,
darting northward free,
Suddenly betook them all,
Every one to his hole in the wall,

Or to his niche in the apple-tree.
I greet with joy the choral trains
Fresh from palms
and Cuba's canes.
Best gems of Nature's cabinet,
With dews of tropic morning wet,

Beloved of children, bards, and Spring,
O birds, your perfect virtues bring,
Your song,
your forms, your rhythmic flight,
Your manners for the heart's delight,
Nestle in
hedge, or barn, or roof,
Here weave your chamber weather-proof,
Forgive our harms,
and condescend
To man, as to a lubber friend,
And, generous, teach his awkward race

Courage, and probity, and grace!
Poets praise that hidden wine
Hid in milk we drew
At the barrier of Time,
When
our life was new.
We had eaten fairy fruit,
We were quick from head to foot,
All the
forms we look on shone
As with diamond dews thereon.
What cared we for costly
joys,
The Museum's far-fetched toys?

Gleam of sunshine on the wall
Poured a
deeper cheer than all
The revels of the Carnival.
We a pine-grove did prefer
To a
marble theatre,
Could with gods on mallows dine,
Nor cared for spices or for wine.

Wreaths of mist and rainbow spanned,
Arch on arch, the grimmest land;
Whistle of a
woodland bird
Made the pulses dance,
Note of horn in valleys heard
Filled the
region with romance.
None can tell how sweet,
How virtuous, the morning air;
Every accent vibrates well;

Not alone the wood-bird's call,
Or