THE MAY-TREE

The May-tree on the hill

Stands in the night

So fragrant and so still,

So dusky white.

That, stealing from the wood

In that sweet air,

You'd think Diana stood

Before you there.

If it be so, her bloom

Trembles with bliss.

She waits across the gloom

Her shepherd's kiss.

Touch her. A bird will start

From those pure snows,—

The dark and fluttering heart

Endymion knows.