MAY.
151
The morning airs are sharp with frost;
Smells of the pine and fern
Come from the east hills, where like fire
The sunrise glories burn;
And in the pasture at the gate
The lazy cattle stand,
Watching the farmer as he goes
To sow his fertile land.
Smells of the pine and fern
Come from the east hills, where like fire
The sunrise glories burn;
And in the pasture at the gate
The lazy cattle stand,
Watching the farmer as he goes
To sow his fertile land.
The dandelion stars the field
With yellow/splendor gay,
The orchards dress themselves in white,
Because the time is May;
The plains are greening in the sun,
And soon the clover grass
Will crimson all the meadow-lands
O'er which the wild bees pass.
With yellow/splendor gay,
The orchards dress themselves in white,
Because the time is May;
The plains are greening in the sun,
And soon the clover grass
Will crimson all the meadow-lands
O'er which the wild bees pass.
Oh, rare west winds, and airs of balm,
Steal down from wild-wood heights!
Oh, scents of spruce, and pine, and fern,
And breath of sweet delights,
Come softly to me, o'er the reach
Of rippling sunlit bay,
And linger long,—oh, linger long!
Because the time is May!
Steal down from wild-wood heights!
Oh, scents of spruce, and pine, and fern,
And breath of sweet delights,
Come softly to me, o'er the reach
Of rippling sunlit bay,
And linger long,—oh, linger long!
Because the time is May!
