MAY

THE redwinged merle, from bending spray
On graceful pinions poising,
Pours out a liquid roundelay
In jubilant rejoicing.
The cock-grouse drums on sounding log,
The fox forsakes the cover,
The woodcock pipes from fen and bog,
From upland leas the plover.

The speckled trout dart up the stream
Beneath the rustic bridges,
While flocks of pigeons glance and gleam
O’er beech and maple ridges.
The golden robin trills his note
Among the netted shadows,
The bobolink with mellow throat
Makes musical the meadows.

The peeping frogs, with silver bells
In rhythmical ovation,
Ring out a chime of treble swells
In joyous gratulation.
The low of kine is mingling with
The song of lark and sparrow,
While fallow fields are growing blithe
Beneath the plow and harrow.

The moon all night, serene and white,
On lake and stream is glowing,
While rippling fountains seek her light
Through woodland valleys flowing.
And all night long a low sweet song
Sweeps o’er the misty hollow,
From marsh and fen, from hill and glen,
From brook, and field, and fallow.

It is the time of pleasant things,
When Love makes up his issues,
When hearts well up like hidden springs
From rusted cells and tissues.
A time to hear, at break of day,
A silver-chorused matin,
A liquid fretwork in crochet,
On atmospheric satin.

A time to feast the soul, the eyes;
To watch each bird that passes;
And half surmise that birds are wise,
And men are only asses.
And then, to turn and raise the load,
With weary shoulders bending,
And take the old, well-beaten road
That leads—unto the ending.