XXVIII — To S. C.

Blithe dreams arise to greet us,

And life feels clean and new,

For the old love comes to meet us

In the dawning and the dew.

O'erblown with sunny shadows,

O'ersped with winds at play,

The woodlands and the meadows

Are keeping holiday.

Wild foals are scampering, neighing,

Brave merles their hautboys blow:

Come! let us go a-maying

As in the Long-Ago.

Here we but peak and dwindle:

The clank of chain and crane,

The whir of crank and spindle

Bewilder heart and brain;

The ends of our endeavour

Are merely wealth and fame,

Yet in the still Forever

We're one and all the same;

Delaying, still delaying,

We watch the fading west:

Come! let us go a-maying,

Nor fear to take the best.

Yet beautiful and spacious

The wise, old world appears.

Yet frank and fair and gracious

Outlaugh the jocund years.

Our arguments disputing,

The universal Pan

Still wanders fluting — fluting -

Fluting to maid and man.

Our weary well-a-waying

His music cannot still:

Come! let us go a-maying,

And pipe with him our fill.

When wanton winds are flowing

Among the gladdening glass;

Where hawthorn brakes are blowing,

And meadow perfumes pass;

Where morning's grace is greenest,

And fullest noon's of pride;

Where sunset spreads serenest,

And sacred night's most wide;

Where nests are swaying, swaying,

And spring's fresh voices call,

Come! let us go a-maying,

And bless the God of all!