TO MAY. How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The old, by thee revived, have said, And wayworn wanderers, poorly fed, Who, tripping, lisps a merry song The tender infant, who was long A prisoner of fond fears; But now, when every sharp-edged blast His mother leaves him free to taste Earth's sweetness in thy breath. Thy help is with the weed that creeps No cliff so bare but on its steeps That our own hands have drest, And yet how pleased we wander forth When May is whispering, "Come! Choose from the bowers of virgin earth The happiest for your home; Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 41 DREAMED that as I wandered by the way, Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay Under a copse that hardly dared to fling. Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, |