To my office window, gray,
Come the sunbeams in their play,
Come the dancing, glancing sunbeams, airy fairies of the May;
Like a breath of summer-time,
Setting Memory's bells a-chime,
Till their jingle seems to mingle with the measure of my rhyme.

And above the tramp of feet,
And the clamor of the street,
I can hear the thrush's singing, ringing high and clear and sweet,—
Hear the murmur of the breeze
Through the bloom-starred apple trees,
And the ripples softly splashing and the dashing of the seas;

See the shadow and the shine
Where the glossy branches twine,
And the ocean's sleepy tuning mocks the crooning in the pine;
Hear the catbird whistle shrill
In the bushes by the rill,
Where the violets toss and twinkle as they sprinkle vale and hill;

Feel the tangled meadow-grass
On my bare feet as I pass;
See the clover bending over in a dew-bespangled mass;
See the cottage by the shore,
With the pansy beds before,
And the old familiar places and the faces at the door.

Oh, the skies of blissful blue,
Oh, the woodland's verdant hue,—
Oh, the lazy days of boyhood, when the world was fair and new!
Still to me your tale is told
In the summer's sunbeam's gold,
And my truant fancy straying, goes a-Maying as of old.