The End Of May

THE fragrant air is full of down,

Of floating, fleecy things

From some forgotten fairy town

Where all the folk wear wings.

Or else the snowflakes, soft arrayed

In dainty suits of lace,

Have ventured back in masquerade,

Spring's festival to grace.

Or these, perchance, are fleets of fluff,

Laden with rainbow seeds,

That count their cargo rich enough

Though all its wealth be weeds.

Or come they from the golden trees,

Where dancing blossoms were,

That now are drifting on the breeze,

Sweet ghosts of gossamer?