The flowers, the haunted flowers of May,

They bring delight, they bring heartache;

What wondrous things to me they say!

So bright—so dim, so sad—so gay,

No stem of theirs I dare to break—

The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!

When lip to lip they softly lay—

As soft, as still, as flake on flake,

What wondrous things to me they say!

For lo! there comes with them to play,

A child, whose feet no imprint make—

The flowers—the haunted flowers of May!

From Childhood’s Land they take their way,

They bloom but for that flower-child’s sake—

What wondrous things to me they say!

With them it lives, their little day;

With them, each new-born year, ’twill wake;

The flowers—the haunted flowers of May,

What wondrous things to me they say!