"Do I know that every day
Brings us nearer Maying-time?"
Yes, José. Before the earth
Thrills to give the first flowers birth,
When the impulse in the clay
Flames along the lowest root
Of the perfume-dreaming thyme,—
Long ere prophecy of fruit
On the budding bough's appearing,—
Feels my heart the May-time nearing.
When the sun rides northerly,
From the mountains of my heart
Melts the winter weight of snow,
Torrents rush and overflow,
And where'er a flower could be
Leaps a loveliness to air.
Though I dwelt from life apart
In a dungeon deep and bare,
In my heart I should be hearing—,
"Lo, the Maying-time is nearing—
May, sweet May, sweet May is nearing!"
