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 lilach 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 sight of a voiceless thing, And our hearts yearn so with tenderness In the beautiful time of Spring. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD SEXTON by PARK BENJAMIN ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY by JOHN MILTON THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL by PUBLIUS AELIUS HADRIANUS CHILD OF THE ROMANS by CARL SANDBURG THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT by JOHN GODFREY SAXE THE FAIRY KING by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE PRAYSE OF LADY PECUNIA by RICHARD BARNFIELD RUSSIA by ALEXANDER (ALEKSANDR) ALEXANDROVICH BLOK THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 114. A LATER DEDICATION by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |