They say that it is May, and, dear, I see
Abloom the lilac and the Judas-tree;
And in the waking woodlands, fluttering,
Like bevy of white butterflies awing.
Glints here and there the dogwood's blossoming.
But O, for all to me—'t is May to me
No more than this worn picture, dear, is thee;
Thee, whose warm cheek pressed close against mine own—
May's image this—her soul with thine is flown.
And May—why I remember, May was young—
And now I stand these wildwood flowers among;
But they are older than the forest trees—
As old as earth is—I can see in these
All of creation's withered centuries!
Aye, they are parched and dry as desert sand—
Grave-grass alone is young in this lone land—
Ah, no, they thoughtless speak, beloved, who say,
Forgetting thou art gone, that this is May.
