May.

Oh the merry May has pleasant hours,         And dreamily they glide,     As if they floated like the leaves         Upon a silver tide.     The trees are full of crimson buds,         And the woods are full of birds,     And the waters flow to music         Like a tune with pleasant words.     The verdure of the meadow-land         Is creeping to the hills,     The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets         Are blowing by the rills;     The lilac has a load of balm         For every wind that stirs,     And the larch stands green and beautiful         Amid the sombre firs.     There's perfume upon every wind -         Music in every tree -     Dews for the moisture-loving flowers -         Sweets for the sucking bee;     The sick come forth for the healing South,         The young are gathering flowers;     And life is a tale of poetry,         That is told by golden hours.     If 'tis not a true philosophy,         That the spirit when set free     Still lingers about its olden home,         In the flower and the tree,     It is very strange that our pulses thrill         At the tint of a voiceless thing,     And our hearts yearn so with tenderness         In the beautiful time of Spring.