II. A ROAD SONG IN MAY.

O come! Is it not surely May?

The year is at its poise today.

Northward, I hear the distant beat

Of Spring's irrevocable feet:

Tomorrow June will have her way.

O tawny waters, flecked with sun,

Come: for your labours all are done.

The grey snow fadeth from the hills;

And toward the sound of waking mills

Swing the brown rafts in, one by one.

O bees among the willow-blooms,

Forget your empty waxen rooms

Awhile, and share our golden hours!

Will they not come, the later flowers,

With their old colours and perfumes?

O wind that bloweth from the west,

Is not this morning road the best?

— Let us go hand in hand, as free

And glad as little children be

That follow some long-dreamed-of quest!