  Were it but May now, while Our hearts are yearning, How they would bound and smile, The young blood burning! Around the tedious dial No slow hands turning. Were it but May now!—say, What joy to go, Your hand in mine all day, Where blossoms blow! Your hand, more white than May, May's flowers of snow. Were it but May now!—think, What wealth she has! The bluet and wild-pink, Wild flowers,—that mass About the wood-brook's brink,— And sassafras. Nights, that the large stars strew, Heaven on heaven rolled; Nights, pearled with stars and dew, Whose heavens hold Aromas, and the new Moon's curve of gold. So mad, so wild is March!— I long, oh, long To see the redbud's torch Flame far and strong; Hear, on my vine-climbed porch, The bluebird's song. How slow the Hours creep, Each with a crutch!— Ah, could my spirit leap Its bounds and touch That day, no thing would keep— Or matter much! But now, with you away, Time halts and crawls, Feet clogged with winter clay, That never falls, While, distant still, that day Of meeting calls. |
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