  A garden in the month of May, The fading of a golden day Upon the tulip flowers. An anthem sung by little birds, The sigh more eloquent than words Of earth to listening hours. And shadows ... like the fringe that lies On cheek, at close of drowsy eyes, And paths, grown damp with dew; And secret places, where to tread Were to disturb the bridal bed Of creatures born anew. And fairer than each living thing That stirs with longings of the Spring, A May tree, bearing flower. Like some young nymph the sunlight charms She stretches forth her slender arms, New decked with leafy dower. While through her wondrous, living form The sap of life leaps strong and warm, Awaking from repose The folded buds to know the Spring, It seems I almost hear them sing For rapture as it flows. Ay! and it seems as though my heart Strained upward, but to take some part In that sweet hymn of praise; As though my pulses quicker beat, To see perfection so complete RevealÉd to my gaze. As though the problem of unrest Were solved at last, in this behest To silently fulfil; And deeper still, my soul perceives The mighty Presence that conceives Such beauty at Its will. |
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