Frost In May

March set heel upon the flowers,     Trod and trampled them for hours:     But when April's bugles rang,     Up their starry legions sprang,     Radiant in the sun-shot showers.     April went her frolic ways,     Arm in arm with happy days:     Then from hills that rim the west,     Bare of head and bare of breast,     May, the maiden, showed her face.     Then, it seemed, again returned     March, the iron-heeled, who turned     From his northward path and caught     May about the waist, who fought     And his fierce advances spurned.     What her strength and her disdain     To the madness in his brain!     He must kiss her though he kill;     Then, when he had had his will,     Go his roaring way again.     Icy grew her finger-tips,     And the wild-rose of her lips     Paled with frost: then loud he laughed,     Left her, like a moonbeam-shaft,     Shattered, where the forest drips....     Mourn for her, O honey-bees!     Mourn, O buds upon the trees!     Birds and blossoms, mourn for May!     Mourn for her, then come away!     Leave her where her flowers freeze.     Leave her. Nothing more may save.     Leave her in her wildwood grave.     Nothing now will waken her,     Loved and lost, and lovelier     For the kiss that wild March gave.