IN
MAY
Grief was
my master yesternight;
To-morrow I may grieve again;
But now along the windy plain
The clouds
have taken flight.
The sowers
in the furrows go;
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The lusty river brimmeth on;
The curtains from the hills
are gone;
The leaves
are out; and lo,
The silvery
distance of the day,
The light horizons, and between
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The glory of the perfect green,
The tumult
of the May.
The bobolinks
at noonday sing
More softly than the softest
flute,
And lightlier than the lightest
lute
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Their fairy
tambours ring.
The roads
far off are towered with dust;
The cherry-blooms are swept
and thinned;
In yonder swaying elms the wind
Is charging
gust on gust.
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But here
there is no stir at all;
The ministers of sun and shadow
Horde all the perfumes of the
meadow
Behind a grassy
wall.
An infant
rivulet wind-free
25
Adown the guarded hollow sets,
Over whose brink the violets
Are nodding
peacefully.
From pool
to pool it prattles by;
The flashing swallows dip and
pass,
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Above the tufted marish grass,
And here at
rest am I.
I care not
for the old distress,
Nor if to-morrow bid me moan;
To-day is mine, and I have known
35
An hour of
blessedness.
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